


Six Ways of Looking at a Sparrow

by Melivian



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Avoidant Attachment Styles, Ben Hargreeves-centric, Character Growth, Childhood Trauma, Comic Book References, Dialogue Heavy, Dramatic Irony, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dynamics, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nature Versus Nurture, Sparrow Academy Student Ben Hargreeves, Substance Abuse, The Sparrow Academy (Umbrella Academy), Unreliable Narrator, and also not named Ben, except for the part where he's a completely different character, only because self-harm is literally a superpower in the comics, written before the S3 Sparrows were revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melivian/pseuds/Melivian
Summary: Number One is already sick of the new houseguests his father is hosting at the Sparrow Academy.  Who are these annoying idiots who won't ever leave him alone, and why do they keep calling him their brother?-In the new timeline, the person who was once Ben has a conversation with each of the siblings he doesn't remember.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Ben Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Everyone, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & The Sparrows, Ben Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves
Comments: 132
Kudos: 255





	1. Luther

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cryptix23, electric016, and Nucci for being beta readers, and to the Elliott's House Discord server for listening to all my Sparrows headcanons.

Number One was not pleased with the current state of affairs.

People tended to assume that as the confident face of the team, One enjoyed being the centre of attention. And sure, he wasn't afraid to speak his mind, or to take charge of a situation. But first and foremost, One valued his space. Too long in the spotlight was like freezing in an unnatural pose—it strained him, and without time alone to recharge afterwards, he'd grow irritable. More than a few times, after a grueling mission culminating in an hours-long press conference, Number One had pissed off his father by being sarcastic to a reporter who'd asked the same stupid question One had heard a thousand times about what a typical day at the Sparrow Academy was like or how it felt to be the first Asian-American superhero or whether he had a girlfriend.

Most of the time, he sucked it up. Leaders didn't hole themselves up in their rooms reading books like complete losers. It was their responsibility to stay in the middle of the action, whether they liked it or not. And as the first baby their father had collected, not to mention the one capable of channeling eldritch monsters who could tear apart armies, Number One was the natural leader of the group.

But that didn't mean he wanted to spend any more time with their new houseguests than was necessary.

“There are forty-two rooms in this house, One,” said Morrigan. Her legs dangled off the top of the cabinet where she sat five feet above their heads. “It's easy to avoid them if you want.”

“That's not the point, Number Three!” said One, craning his neck up as he spoke to her. “Those people are like a bad smell. I can tell they're here wherever I go. And they're so loud, and obnoxious, and—and _entitled._ It drives me crazy. They act like this is their home.”

“How old are you again?” asked Leslie, in a deadpan voice. On their face was a trace of a smirk. “Are you pushing thirty or still fourteen, Ebo—”

“Very funny, Les. And it's Number One. Maybe you should show some respect.”

Leslie turned away and said nothing. Number Six's mouth could be poisonous in more than the obvious literal sense, but they would always fall in line when One pulled rank. Everyone in this house could put aside their personal grievances for the sake of the mission. The seven of them never would have lasted for so long as a team otherwise.

“Anyway, I don't trust them,” said One. “When they got here, they were about to tell me something, I just know it. But then Dad called them into their office, and since that meeting they've been acting shifty.”

“Can't you just talk to Dad?” asked Carla.

“Of course I tried that first, but he wouldn't give me a straight answer.”

(“It's none of your concern, Number One,” Sir Reginald had said after One had confronted him about the strangers calling themselves the Umbrella Academy. “Simply obsolete tools that refuse to stay in the garden shed where they belong.”

“Then why are you letting them stay at our house?”

He hadn't looked up from his notebook. “Number One, it's important to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Beyond that, you'd best not pry into matters that are above your head.”

And One had made a face and stuck his tongue out at his father—but only after turning his back, of course.)

“I know they're hiding something,” said One. “I feel it in my bones. Maybe we need to take matters into our own hands.” Out of habit, he turned to the others. “What do the rest of you think? Number Two?” Although it was One's job to make the final call himself, he always went down the line and heard the group's consensus first.

“I think more people with powers is only a good thing,” said Astrid, with a bright smile. “If they want to save the world too, then the more the merrier. And if they want to destroy it, I'm confident we'll stop them, because that's what we always do.”

One nodded and looked up at Three. At her turn, Morrigan blushed. “Um, I agree with Two, I guess. Both that extra hands on deck couldn't hurt, and that we could take them easily if they turn on us.”

“So true,” said Carla, before One needed to prompt her. “I mean, have you seen them? They're a mess.”

On Five's cue, Guillaume looked up from the cushion he was embroidering with his blood-encrusted voodoo needles. “I think they're sweet,” he said. “The way they're always bickering is kind of endearing. Like they've known each other their whole lives. It's funny, they all look so different, and yet you'd almost think they were siblings.”

“That's only because they think everyone's related to them,” said One. “They keep calling me their brother, and it's weird as hell. I think they're crazy.”

“Oh, they're definitely crazy,” said Carla. “But still, they seem harmless. Aside from that creepy kid, anyway.”

This entire conversation was getting under his skin. “Come on, I can't be the only one who has a problem with them,” said One. “Six, Seven?”

Leslie looked resentful at being called on. “I don't care either way,” they said, with a sullen shrug. “I have as much of a problem with them as I have with anyone.”

Christopher emitted a series of beeps.

“That's a fair point,” said Number One to the floating cube. “But still, I think that could backfire. Those assholes would screw us over if we gave them the chance.”

“One, you've been acting weird since they got here,” said Carla. “Dad has invited worse people to our house before. Why are you taking this so personally?”

“Of course this isn't personal,” said One. He felt his face heat up. “I just think we need to keep our guard up. Why does no one else see that?”

“Dad trusts them,” said Astrid. “And he always seems to be right about these things.”

Maybe he was being unreasonable. But a frustration he couldn't articulate was bubbling up inside him. “You're all dismissed,” said One.

Morrigan vanished, and the flock of crows perched on the cabinet in her place dispersed into the air. The others filtered out the door one by one. Only Guillaume lingered behind.

“I wouldn't count them out so easily, myself,” he said. “They might not be the most organized, but I think they'd die for each other. There's nothing more powerful than that.” He paused. “I wonder if that's what it's like to have a real family.”

“Don't be such a sap, Number Five,” said One. “My father didn't raise us to be weak.”

As always, the tumorous growths that covered Guillaume's face hid any readable expression, but his shoulders slumped.

No, the others didn't understand. For them, the strangers who'd shown up at their doorstep claiming to be miracle babies with superpowers like their own were curiosities, nothing more.

But for Number One, it was different. The Umbrella Academy never left him alone. They were always trying to talk to One with an openness that was indecent for someone they barely knew, encroaching upon his bubble and being much too familiar. And their silences were nearly as bad. The moment One entered a room, they would stop whatever they were doing and gape at him.

It made him claustrophobic. He hated the way they were always searching for ghosts in his face. They wanted to see something that wasn't there.

***

The knocking on Number One's bedroom door was audible even through his headphones.

“Come in,” said One, fighting his annoyance at the interruption. He turned off his music.

When the door opened and the hulking man stood in the entrance, One regretted extending the invitation. “What is it?” He scowled. It was one of the six people he least wanted to see.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” said the man, sounding wistful. “I'm Luther, by the way. I guess you don't know that.”

One gave a cursory nod, then pointedly turned away. But the man walked straight into the bedroom as if he belonged here. Clearly he couldn't take a hint.

“So this is your room now,” said Luther. He seemed transfixed by their surroundings, taking in the band and horror movie posters and plaques and framed magazine covers on the walls. His eyes fell upon the shelf of CDs and DVDs. “What are these plastic boxes?” he asked, picking one up and staring at it like a cryptic artifact.

“I didn't say you could touch my things!” snapped One.

“Sorry,” said Luther, putting it back. “It's just...a lot to take in.”

Stiffly, he froze in the centre of the room, his bulk taking up most of the space. The invasion of privacy made One feel exposed. Luther's gaze was lingering for far too long on the googly-eyed octopus at the foot of One's bed that Guillaume had crocheted years ago and that One had pretended he hadn't kept.

“You know,” said Luther, as though he was working up the courage to poke a bear, “the last time I was here, it was full of model airplanes. It's so strange, seeing it like this. Seeing _you_ like this _._ ”

“When were you last here?” One asked. “In the sixties?” Their guests were evasive about their origins, but he'd pieced together something about time travel.

“A year ago,” said Luther. “Or a few days ago. Depending on how you count. Uh, it's complicated.”

“You're not making any sense.” As discreetly as he could manage, he stretched out his leg and kicked the octopus off the side of the bed.

“If it makes you feel better, Ben, it makes just as little sense to us.”

“Who's Ben?” asked One.

The giant man jerked as if struck. “Ben isn't your name?” he asked, in a tiny voice.

For such a big guy, Luther was absurdly sensitive. Never had One seen anyone so upset over forgetting a name. “My name is Number One.”

Luther looked nauseous. “No. It can't just be Number One. You must have another name, right?” The man reached for his shoulder—on instinct, he flexed his stomach muscles and opened the portal in his abdomen. A tentacle burst through the buttons of his shirt, swatting Luther's arm away.

“Don't touch me,” said One.

“Please,” said Luther. For some reason, he didn't recoil the way most did at One's power. He was still much too close, and One could feel his breath on his face. “Tell me you guys have names. Dad didn't take that from you, did he?”

“Well...” One fidgeted. “I did have a name once, but I don't use it anymore.”

“Thank God,” said Luther. “What is it?”

Number One wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but the man seemed so desperate, as though the name was his last lifeline. “Fine,” he said, looking away. “It's...Ebony.”

Luther made a sound that was suspiciously like a snort.

One flushed. “Stop that.”

“I—I'm sorry.” Luther straightened his face into a neutral expression. His mouth twitched. “Just a tip, but you might not want to tell the others that. They'll eat you alive. Especially Klaus.”

“I was fourteen, okay? So sue me, I thought it sounded cool. Our nannies helped us choose names when the bullshit we fed reporters about secret identities got harder to maintain. Too much bad press hurts the Academy's reputation, you know.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone else was looking through baby name books and researching their birth cultures, but I wanted something edgy and unique. You know how it is at fourteen. You want to be your own person. I was going through this whole goth phase to piss my father off.”

“Dad let you have a goth phase?”

That word again, 'Dad.' Number One was standing over the mouth of a rabbit hole he didn't want to venture down. “That's the funny thing about him. In some ways he's such a hardass, but in the end, all he really cares about are results. He told me that as long as I was getting the job done on missions, I could indulge in what he called my 'silly rebellion.'”

“That's not the person I knew,” said Luther, shaking his head. “He had rules about everything. Hair, clothes, music. And there was no such thing as getting the job done. Nothing was ever good enough for him, no matter how hard you tried.”

One furrowed his brow. “I mean, he had high expectations, but I wouldn't say they were unreasonable. He always told me that as far as children went, we could have been a lot worse.” A pang of hurt flashed across Luther's face, but One didn't care to unpack the reaction. “Anyway, he was banking on me getting bored when I didn't get a rise from him and growing out of it. And he was right, in the end. I grew out of it. Mostly.” He motioned to his hair. “So the name didn't age well. Now that I'm twenty-nine, Number One suits me a lot better.”

The look in Luther's eyes was far away. “We got names when we were ten. Most of us, anyway.”

A shiver danced underneath his skin. “What do you mean?”

“You haven't figured it out yet?” asked the man. “My real name isn't Luther. It's Number One.”

“That's impossible,” said One, but he knew even as he spoke how possible it was.

“Think of us as a B-team,” said Luther. “Although from my point of view, you guys are the B-team.”

In spite of himself, One felt a twinge of betrayal. “All these years, Dad was grooming two teams of superheroes at once? And he never told us?”

Luther shifted his eyes away. “Uh—I mean, not quite. Sort of. Anyway, the details don't matter.”

“But you called him Dad,” said One. “Was he hopping back and forth between our houses? And how have you been here before when we've never seen you?”

One caught an expression on Luther's face like he was inwardly kicking himself. “Well, uh...we lived...in Norway. Just popped in to visit a few times. You know...on superhero business.”

It was obvious that Luther had revealed something he shouldn't have. Also, that this man was a terrible liar. One felt a flash of vindication. But he decided not to show his hand. If these people were enemies of the Sparrow Academy, One shouldn't let on that he suspected anything.

“So you're...me?” asked One. He looked Luther over. “I guess your power is the gorilla body?”

Luther's confidence seemed to shatter like glass. “No,” he said quietly. “That was—that was something else.” His voice had a tremor. Number One wondered how soft this B-team's training must have been if this person was his counterpart. No one who'd lived a life like his own had any business being that delicate.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, One asked, “What was it like for you, being Number One?”

Luther grimaced. “It was...awful. Suffocating.”

One shrugged. “I don't think it's so bad. It's a lot of responsibility, but it can be rewarding. I'm good at it, anyway.”

“Of course you are.” Luther sighed. “You always were the best of us.”

There was an awkward silence. Luther was openly staring at One, and One didn't think it was his imagination that Luther's eyes were misty. It was uncomfortable. One really wanted to get back to his music.

“You wanted to speak to me about something?” asked One, prodding him.

“Nothing, really. I just wanted to hear your voice.” Luther shuffled his feet, then cleared his throat. “Hey. All the pressure that Sir Reginald is putting on you. All that bullshit about being a good Number One. Don't listen to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can't live trying to impress him,” said Luther. “It's a race you can't win. The moment you stop being useful to him, he'll throw you in the trash.”

“None of that is your concern,” said One, feeling a sudden flash of defensiveness. “Sure, my old man can be a dick sometimes, but he chose me as the team leader for a reason. He's not going to throw me in the trash when I'm saving the world.”

“No, you don't understand,” said Luther, his voice rising in pitch. “That's how he gets you. He'll pad your ego so you think you're better than everyone else. You'll compare yourself to Klaus or Vanya and convince yourself that this is some sick honour. That you're not miserable. But it's a trap. You won't realize until it's too late that you don't even know who you are anymore, because you've cut out every piece of yourself that was yours and not Dad's. Get out while you can.”

This conversation was unsettling him. There was no sense wondering if he'd taken the wrong turn years after making it—not when all other paths had been obscured in fog, if they'd ever existed in the first place. “I don't know where out is,” said One. “I'm fine here. This is who I am.”

“No, Ben,” said Luther. “Trust me. I know it's not.”

One was starting to get angry. “You know what? I don't know who you _think_ I am, but maybe you should stop projecting your own failures onto me. I know how to stand up to Dad. I know how to separate who I am as a person from what I do on missions. Maybe unlike you, I can take on a role without losing myself in it.”

Luther flinched. “Never mind,” he said. “I shouldn't have bothered.”

“I think we're done here,” said One.

He turned over and reached for his headphones, as blatant a “go away” as he could muster. But Luther was still lingering in the doorway.

“Look,” said Luther, “I know this is stupid, and it'll mean nothing to you. But I spent years wishing I could make things right. Then when I saw—when we were at the theatre, I thought I'd finally get a chance. It was like a miracle. But it turns out I missed the boat forever. So I just need to say it, okay? For me.”

“Just get to the point,” said One. His patience had run thin for this man who treated him like nothing more than a husk for someone else.

He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” asked One.

“For getting you killed,” said Luther.

Before One could say anything, the door slammed shut, and he was alone again.

What, thought One, the _fuck_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone says anything: yes, I know Aidan posted a news article referring to Number One of the Sparrow Academy as Ben. Since it's not canon yet, I'm choosing to ignore it. 1) The odds seem infinitesimal that he'd choose the same name for himself, and 2) this idea came to me back in August, so by the time I found the article, I was already attached to Ebony as a name. (Yes, I am a very serious writer who named not!Ben after a My Immortal meme. I think I earned it in exchange for not including a single MCR reference.)
> 
> I hope you were able to keep track of all the Sparrows, but just in case, I made a [visual aid](https://imgur.com/a/pVGVM5Y) for the names and numbers of the comic book characters.


	2. Diego

Already, One had reached his fill of interaction with the Umbrella Academy for a lifetime. But fate seemed to think otherwise.

As One passed by the parlour on the way to train in the weight room downstairs, he heard voices. His pace slowed.

“For the last time, I don't know how he got there! One moment I'm minding my own business, and the next, I've got a stowaway in my body.”

“That's funny. Ben had something else to say about that.”

That name— _Ben_. It was the key to a door hiding a secret that seemed to loom over everything their guests did. But even if part of him was afraid of opening it, Number One owed it to the team to gather reconnaissance. He lingered outside the parlour, eavesdropping.

“Jesus, Diego, will you please just lay off me? I really don't want to talk about this now.”

A woman spoke. “Those times you stayed at my house, was Ben there too? You don't think I would have liked to know? Or were you going to keep him away from us forever?”

One heard the sounds of pouring, of clinking glass. “All right, fine,” said the first man. “Everything was hectic with the whole second apocalypse. And Ben was—well, things were kind of weird between us. But I would have cleared it up eventually.”

“It's always eventually with you, Klaus,” said Diego. “Eventually you'll get sober, eventually you'll give a shit about something other than yourself—”

“Look, I'm sorry, okay? I thought we had plenty of time. How was I supposed to know he'd become extra dead all of a sudden? Since when is that even a thing?”

“Guys, please stop,” said a second woman, one with a voice so soft he had to strain to hear her. “Ben wasn't holding a grudge in the end—”

“You got to say goodbye, Vanya,” said Diego. “No thanks to him.”

“Diego, just drop it,” said the first woman. “It won't change anything now.”

“No, by all means, Allison, let him continue,” said Klaus, and One noticed for the first time how badly slurred his words were. “Just admit what this is really about, Diego. You're sad that the wrong brother died. Believe me, you made it _pretty_ fucking obvious back in Dallas. Well, you know what? Screw you. You don't get Ben. Mr. Perfect is gone. Finito. You're stuck with me instead.”

“You know what,” said Diego, his voice spiking in volume until it turned into a yell, “if this is how you're planning to spend the rest of your life, then maybe the wrong brother did die!”

The room went terribly silent. God, Carla had been right. These people were complete messes. How had One seen them as a threat?

One stepped inside the parlour. There were two men and two women standing by the bar, and the tension between them was palpable within one glimpse. One of them, a thin man with long hair, was cradling a decanter of Scotch, an expression on his face like he'd just been slapped. A glass with a generous serving inside rested by him on the edge of the bar.

“Klaus,” said the taller woman, reaching an arm toward him, “you know he doesn't mean it. It's just Diego being—”

Everyone froze.

“What are you all looking at?” asked One.

The sound of glass shattering resonated in the vast parlour, making him jump. A tentacle wiggled under his shirt, ready to strike.

On the floor, the decanter lay in pieces. An amber puddle was spreading at the feet of the man named Klaus. He was staring at One with eyes like saucers, his face drained of colour.

“Why did you do that?” shouted One, his blood boiling at the audacity. “That Scotch was worth thousands of dollars. My old man will be pissed.”

Klaus jerked his head away. “Well, this was a nice chat, but I've got things to do. Later.” With a trembling hand, he grabbed the drink on the bar. As he passed One on his way out, he stepped far around him as though One was radioactive. Number One found it a welcome improvement.

“I should talk to him,” said the other woman, a short brunette, although she sounded uncertain. She gave One a long look before heading out, leaving the other two behind.

“So much for Team Zero,” said the first woman, rolling her eyes.

For a split second, guilt flashed across the face of the man who must have been Diego by process of elimination, but then his expression hardened. “Don't you miss him too, Allison?”

Her eyes flickered to One, then back to her brother. “I had fifteen years to mourn,” she said. “Maybe you should be more worried about those of us who are still living.”

Allison spun around, the click of her heels on the marble floor echoing in her wake. Then One and Diego were alone.

“Shit,” said Diego. He flung a knife in front of him. It arced midair, toward a portrait of Sir Reginald on the wall, and landed by some uncanny coincidence in the middle of his face.

“What the hell?” Number One cried out. “You can't just vandalize our property. You don't live here.”

Diego let out the sigh of someone who was exhausted to the bone. “It's this house, man. It gets in your head.” He was staring at his hands. “All those hours of group therapy and anger management training, out the window. It's like I'm seventeen again.”

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” asked One.

“It's nothing,” said Diego. He let out a bitter laugh. “Just replaying our family's greatest hits.” Then he looked at One with an intensity that made him want to squirm. “Hey, I need to ask. What happened to Mom?”

“Mom?”

“Robot named Grace? That ring a bell? Or do you have a mother?” When One wrinkled his forehead in confusion, Diego's face fell. “Guess that answers my question.”

Abruptly, Diego turned his back on One. There was an awkward silence, and then—was that the sound of sniffling? Oh, no. It was definitely sniffling. Time for One to make his exit.

He spun around, but before he could escape, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Flinching, he raised his arms in a defensive stance.

“I can't believe you're here, bro,” said Diego, a quiver in his voice. “It's so good to see you for real this time. Maybe this all worked out in the end.”

“I literally don't even know who you are,” said One.

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “Just let me have this.” And to One's horror, he pulled him into a hug.

“Please let go of me,” said One, fighting the urge to sic a tentacle monster on him. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had hugged him. Maybe one of his nannies, when he'd been small.

“Right,” said Diego, releasing him. “My bad.”

There was that look again, like One was a symbol imbued with religious significance and not a person. Everything about this dynamic made One uncomfortable. It was too lopsided.

“You obviously know me,” said One. “Mind explaining how?”

The question seemed to tax Diego's reserves. He clenched a fist at his side, then puckered his mouth as though someone had forced him to suck on a lemon. “Ask your father.”

“I tried. He never gives a straight answer about anything.”

“Then ask Five,” said Diego, his voice full of spite. “Since they're best buddies now.”

“Why would Guillaume know anything?”

“Who's Guillaume? I mean the psychopath in a kid's body. That little shit can lie to your face if he wants. I'm not making up some bullshit story to keep Dad happy.”

Not for the first time, One saw why the Umbrella Academy was the B-team. Whatever squabble they were having behind the scenes, now was the chance to exploit it.

“Your Five sounds like a dick,” said One. “Oh, by the way, have you ever been to Norway?”

“Why the fuck would I go to Norway?” asked Diego. Before One could press his advantage, Diego said, with far too much earnestness, “Tell me, are you happy? You and your brothers and sisters.”

Number One was confused. “What brothers and sisters?”

Diego stared at him in bewilderment. “Those other people. The tall blonde. The bird lady. The—the freaking cube.”

“Oh, you mean the Sparrow Academy,” said One. “Those aren't really my siblings. They're...colleagues. Alumni of the same program.”

“But Sir Reginald adopted you,” said Diego, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “If he's your father, doesn't that make you siblings?”

One frowned. He hadn't considered it that way. “Well, technically,” he said. “But we barely spoke until we were twelve. Dad didn't want us fraternizing too much.”

In this house, it was easy to forget sometimes that their lives were abnormal. They were so isolated that they took for granted all the strangeness—the superpowers and televator and lessons on killing someone with a toaster. But every now and then, One would catch an ugly glimpse of how the outside world perceived them. He saw it now in Diego's eyes. “What kind of bullshit is that? Didn't you live together? Study together?”

“It's not that big a deal,” said One, feeling the sudden need to justify himself. “It's a big house. We mostly stayed in our own wings. And we had private tutors. Sure, we had ten hours a week together of joint training since we were eight. More when the missions started at twelve. But we weren't supposed to talk outside of that.”

“That's sick,” said Diego. “You're thirty years old and Dad won't let you talk to each other?”

“Of course not,” said One with a laugh. “That'd be ridiculous. We got more freedom when we turned eighteen. Obviously, we still have to go on missions and stay on top of our training to live here. But Dad doesn't need to babysit us anymore. It's just...you know.” He shrugged. “There isn't much we have to say to each other.”

Diego balled his hands into fists. “That bastard,” he said, shaking with naked rage. “That ratfucking bastard. He didn't like that we were a united front. It wasn't enough to pit us against each other growing up. No, he wanted to make sure you didn't get together in the first place this time around.”

In his mind, One filed away the words _this time around_ as a valuable clue. “That's not it at all,” said One. “Ever hear the expression, 'don't shit where you eat'?”

“I can't imagine Dad saying that.”

“Not in those words,” said One. “But can you think of anyone who'd make a worse superhero team than a bunch of siblings? Imagine what a disaster that would be. They'd bicker all the time. They'd fight each other more than the criminals. They'd hold grudges over the time they were eight and stole each other's toys, or the time Mommy gave one of them two cookies instead of one. There's too much history and bad blood there. Some healthy distance is important.”

“They'd love each other,” said Diego. His voice broke. “That's more important.”

“Oh, please,” said One. “Love is overrated. We like each other just enough to get the job done. It keeps us objective. It's not based on toxic relationships we formed before we were emotionally mature. You don't love your co-workers, do you? And I'm sure you wouldn't want to live with them either.” Of course, One had never had a job—or a family, really, unless you counted Sir Reginald himself. But based on what he'd absorbed from movies, he chose to take his father's word for it. “I know I'd want to kill someone I was stuck with 24/7.”

Diego was still staring at One like he was the hapless victim of a tragic accident. “So what, none of you have friends?” he asked. “Wasn't there someone you could sneak out with, or play jokes on? Who did you even talk to growing up?”

“I don't know,” said One, “reporters? The help? There wasn't time for most of that. It didn't feel like we were missing out.” He hated the pity in Diego's eyes. Number One wasn't a charity case. “It's not like we never talk,” he added. “We get along, mostly.”

It ran deeper than that, but One wasn't willing to share everything with this stranger. None of the seven needed to describe their relationship, nor would they even know how. If any of them had tried, One would have been the loudest at calling whoever had been foolish enough a wimp. But some things just _were_.

For example, you didn't have to explain how it felt to be trapped with Leslie under the rubble of a burning elementary school at fourteen. To watch together as the children you'd been sent to save died in front of you, to watch what it did to Leslie. Or to be surrounded by snipers, the air roaring with the sound of more bullets being fired than your tentacles could ever block, and then just as you'd resigned yourself to the fate you'd known would come sooner or later, to see bullets and snipers alike disintegrate to ash as Astrid snapped her fingers and released a white inferno. Or to be twelve, before you'd learned to shut pieces of yourself off, and to eviscerate your first room of robbers, to be good at it, to be far too good at it, to let the dust settle and see all sorts of things you'd had no idea were inside people hanging on the outside. Then just as a buzzing in your head became a deafening crescendo and your stomach tilted and lurched like a boat in a storm, to feel Carla leading you by the arm. And although neither of you said a word, to feel her touch your forehead, sending a warm glow of healing energy down your spine and through your limbs, until the world was still again.

Whatever it was had no name. Not love, not friendship. It was the unspoken bond of people who'd faced death together, one that no one else on the planet could understand.

Only...once it was over, they had nothing to talk about. Away from combat, there might as well be a wall of ice between them. To the best of One's knowledge, none of them had much in common, aside from things they were happiest not talking about at all. And if that wasn't true, One would never know it. Sure, he knew superficial details—the dense history books Morrigan was always carrying to read in treetops, or Astrid's unhealthy juice cleanses, or Guillaume's latest craft project. And Christopher would transmit the occasional telepathic blast when he experienced an emotion too strong to hold back, although by now those were rare and always extinguished before One could blink. But beyond the hints that peeked through as window dressing, their inner lives were mysteries to him.

The seven of them were nothing more than pieces of a weapon. On the battlefield, they fit together perfectly. Off it, they had no function.

“Well, shit,” said Diego, looking stricken. For a while, he seemed to be considering something. Then he said, “You know what? I think I'm going to find Klaus.”

Good riddance, thought One.

Right before he left, Diego touched One's shoulder and said, “Thank you, Ben,” making him shiver.

Nothing made much sense, but Number One thought he was getting a pretty good idea of the _what_ , even if the _how_ and _why_ eluded him. He felt a surge of triumph, along with a strange sense of loss—as if he'd been robbed of an object he'd never known he'd possessed.


	3. Allison

Number One was in his bedroom when he heard a tap outside. A crow was perched on his window sill. Then another joined her. And another.

He opened the window. A storm of flapping wings rushed in, blowing a gust of wind at his face. Birds gathered in the middle of his room, then flew around in a spiral that coiled more and more tightly until it coalesced into a person.

“I have news for you,” said Morrigan. Her hands were folded demurely in front of her.

“Let's hear it, Number Three,” said One.

“Our guests were plotting in the courtyard,” she said, in a breathy, high-pitched voice just a hair above a whisper. “We were hiding in the elm tree, and we heard it.” By “we,” One knew she meant the flock. “Maybe you were onto something after all.”

“No shit,” said One. “I knew they were suspicious.”

“I'm sorry, but I couldn't make heads or tails of most of it,” said Three. “A lot about apocalypses and whether going back in time would cause one. They were also arguing over whether to trust their father or fight him. The kid accused them all of being blinded by daddy issues, saying that for all his faults, at least their father wanted to stop the planet from turning to ash.”

He had an inkling of who their father was, and his stomach clenched. “Go on.”

“But here’s the part that worries me.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “The woman named Allison mentioned a briefcase. And she said that if they use it, 'maybe we can get rid of the Sparrow Academy and have our old lives back.'”

Number One mulled it over. The more he heard, the more certain pieces were starting to fit together.

“Should we take them out?” he asked.

Morrigan shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe we should wait and see.”

“You always want to wait and see,” said One.

“To be honest, I don't think they'll actually do it,” said Morrigan. “Only Allison was pushing for that plan. The others seemed undecided or against it. She was getting really upset with them, but they all told her it was too risky. Because they might make things worse, and because it wasn't fair to Ben.”

His heart sped up. “Ben?”

“Yes, they kept talking about a Ben,” she said. “Someone asked if this was really a life for him, and someone else wondered if it was possible to create a world where he was both alive and—um, this is a direct quote—'not a complete dickwad.' And the kid was screaming at two of them for telling Ben too much. Saying their father would get mad if they didn't keep their story straight, and also, that this wasn't their Ben anymore and their goals weren't aligned. It became a huge fight. What else?” She reflected for a moment. “Oh, a _lot_ of insults. Selfish, useless, asshole, junkie, more synonyms for stupid than I could count...” Then she turned pink. “Also, something obscene about a mannequin.”

One shook his head. “Those people are incompetent,” he said. “Anyway, you should report this to Dad. The briefcase might be a weapon.”

Morrigan nodded. She turned around and took a step toward the window. Then she stopped. “You know, it's funny. They called the kid Five, like Guillaume. The powers, the numbers for names—it's almost like they're _us_.”

With a shrug, she spread her arms and began to disintegrate.

“Morrigan, wait—”

The fuzzy black masses reformed into one entity, and she turned her head.

He tried to put what he wanted to say into words. There was a gulf between them that might as well have spanned continents.

“Good job,” he said finally.

“Thank you,” she said, a bit confused. “It's what I'm here for.”

“I mean it,” said One. “That was valuable intel. It would have been even more valuable if you'd paid better attention.”

Morrigan blinked. “Pardon?”

“You didn't remember any of the parts about the apocalypse.” As he spoke, he found himself automatically falling into his father's cadences. “Next time you do reconnaissance, I suggest you try taking notes. This way you won't miss anything.”

The stare she gave him was completely blank. “I'll keep that in mind,” she said, before flying off. He was left with the distinct impression that hadn't quite gone how he'd wanted it to.

So Allison was his enemy. One decided to do some digging of his own. Later that day, he camped out in the bathroom on the third floor, where all the guest rooms were. He knew that it was only a matter of time before she'd need to go back to her room for something. Every so often, he'd hear footsteps in the hall, and he'd peek through a crack in the door to see one of her siblings instead. After a long wait, he found his chance when he caught Allison heading toward one of the rooms alone. He popped out of the bathroom, ambushing her.

“Hey,” he said.

For just a moment, he thought she looked startled, but she recovered quickly. “Hi,” she said. “Ebony, was it?”

One winced. “Just call me Number One. _Please_.”

She flashed a smile that was all white teeth and radiant charm and grace, so convincing that it _almost_ reached her eyes. “It's nice to meet you,” she said. “You've got a beautiful house. We've really appreciated your father's hospitality.”

Instantly, One sensed that this woman was far more dangerous than her brothers. At minimum, she had a lot more going on upstairs. Had it not been for Morrigan, he never would have suspected that Allison had just been plotting to murder him.

“That's...good,” said One, forcing himself to be agreeable. Given Number One could get away with being as blunt and abrasive as he wanted without repercussions, those were muscles he rarely exercised, but he was capable when he put his mind to it.

He decided to cut to the chase. “So who's Ben?” he asked.

Her expression wavered for just a second, a slight ripple on the surface of a still pond, before smoothing out into a smile again. For a while, she seemed to be considering her response.

“Someone we used to know,” she said at last. “But he's been gone for a long time.”

“Okay,” said One. “I was just wondering. Because your brothers keep calling me that.”

She shook her head. “That's strange. I mean, there's a slight resemblance. But he was a different person.”

“They also seem to think I'm their brother,” said One. “Would you know anything about that?”

“Well, we were all miracle babies,” said Allison. “Born with superpowers on October 1st, 1989. You might consider us all a family.”

“That's stupid,” said One. “We all have different parents.”

“Exactly!” said Allison eagerly. “None of us are biological siblings. And they still never let me hear the end of it. I mean, just because we happened to live together—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” said Allison. “So tell me about yourself, Number One. What's it like at the Sparrow Academy? Things seem very different from how it was for us in Norway.” Had he not already known it was a lie, the way she cringed when she said “Norway” might have escaped his notice.

One scowled. “It's fine,” he said.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Just fine? Come on, I know you can do better than that." She gave him a grin whose warmth could have easily been real. “Give me some stories about dumb criminals you caught or something.”

“Just fine.”

Already, he was getting antsy. He'd never had much practice with small talk. But this was far from the most unpleasant task he'd forced himself to do for the Sparrow Academy. At least this one wouldn't leave him permanently disfigured.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he forced himself to ask. “What do you want with my father?”

“He's the expert on people like us,” said Allison, with a casual laugh. “Of course we'd come see him.” She was watching him very closely. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You're going to ask me regardless, aren't you?”

“I'm just wondering why you stayed so long,” she said. “All of you, I mean. Why didn't you go out into the real world?”

One blinked. “I don't get it. Why wouldn't I stay?”

“Except for Luther, we all left sooner or later,” said Allison. “I wonder what changed. Was it just because you—” Then she stopped.

“You mean the Umbrella Academy, right? All of you just...abandoned your posts?”

Allison lowered her eyes. “Yeah. A long time ago.” Her expression darkened. “Something terrible happened. And afterwards, nothing was right anymore. We all just wanted to get away. So I started over on the other side of the country. And then I spent years never looking back.”

“Oh, really? What city in Norway did you move to?” asked One, just because he felt like being an ass.

She didn't skip a beat. “I was trying so hard to run from the past that I pushed the others away. But then one day, I wondered if I'd made the right choice. Sure, our childhood was awful, but at least we had each other. But you're stupid when you're young. You don't value your loved ones enough until they're gone. Then it becomes so much harder to win them back.”

Allison was making him uneasy, the way it always did to meet someone with a completely alien outlook on the world. He tried to imagine the kind of person he'd have to be to plan his life around loved ones. “None of us have anything to run from.”

“But you're almost thirty,” said Allison. She scrutinized him. “You never wanted to get away from your father? Wasn't there anything else you wanted to do?”

“Of course not,” said One, as emphatically as he could. “I love being a superhero.”

Allison looked confused. “You don't mind the blood? And the killing?”

One made a huge show of rolling his eyes. “What do you take me for, a total wuss?”

For some reason, this seemed to catch her off guard. “I thought maybe you'd stayed because of your siblings. Or because you didn't have anywhere else to go.”

“For the last time,” said One, “they're not my siblings.”

Her expression turned sour, as if One was giving off a bad smell. But then a knowing half-smile crossed her lips.

“You know, most of us liked it, at first,” she said. “Being heroes. Or at least we tolerated it, even if we hated everything else about our lives.” Then she met One's eyes in defiance. “But one of my brothers was always against it. From the very first mission. He didn't like it at all.”

“Why not?” asked One. “Was he a coward or something?”

Allison gave him a look of palpable dislike. “No, he knew how to think for himself. Maybe he wasn't as showy about his intelligence as someone like Five, but he was smart enough to ask questions. He was always reading. He understood people. And he had a good heart.” Her voice wobbled. “Such a good heart. And I wish I'd appreciated it more.”

One snorted. “Are you sure he wasn't just a coward?”

“No,” said Allison, and anger flashed in her eyes. “He was braver than you could ever be.”

Okay, that had been more than enough agreeableness for the next year. “Well, screw you too,” said One. “You're the worst houseguests we've ever had. And that's including the foreign dictator.” He straightened his back and adopted the most menacing pose he could muster. “Keep this up, and we might have to teach you guys a lesson.”

Allison let out a disdainful laugh. “Oh, get over yourself. You don't scare me.”

That was not a reaction One was used to, and it ruffled him in spite of himself. With forced bravado, he said, “Maybe you should be scared of me—”

“I heard a rumour you remembered us.”

Suddenly, One felt the clouds part in his mind, and a light shone through. “Allison?” he said, with dawning wonder.

At once, her features softened. “You know me?”

“Yeah, of course I know you!” said One. “I've known you for years.”

The mask came off, revealing something soft and bruised underneath. “Oh my God,” she said, and her face scrunched up. “It's really you.”

Without warning, her arms were around him, and he found himself with her head buried in his chest. Once again, he stiffened at the physical contact. It was awkward...but sort of nice. Not that he'd never touched a woman—at any bar, there was someone willing to look past his prickly personality, at least for a night, as soon as she recognized his scarred face. But this was different, more than fumbling, impersonal contact in the dark. No one had ever wanted to hold him like this before. She was squeezing him tightly, as though she never wanted to let him go.

“I'm so tired of losing people,” she said, between sobs. “But you're back now. You're actually back.”

“Uh, right,” said One, a bit puzzled. “I mean, I never left.”

“I wish you could meet my daughter so badly,” she said. “But she doesn't even exist anymore, and no one else cares. No one else will lift a fucking finger to help. They're all too absorbed in their own problems.”

“There...there?” managed One weakly. He wasn't sure what to do in this situation. Pat her on the head? The only guidance he'd ever had for when someone had her arms wrapped around his torso was how to stomp on her instep to distract her and then knee her in the solar plexus.

“I can't do this anymore,” said Allison. “I used to be good at rebuilding my life from scratch. I was alone in a place where I couldn't even eat at a lunch counter without getting assaulted. Then I found a new family, and we fought so hard together for the cause. And it just killed me inside to say goodbye to them. But I thought I could make that sacrifice, if it meant I'd see Claire again. But now Claire is gone, and Raymond is gone, and I'm just so tired. For once, I want to stay in one place.”

Number One fidgeted in her arms. Not only was he completely out of his element, but it was so hard to relate. He'd only had one life, and each day had been almost identical to the last. He couldn't ever imagine restarting from scratch.

“Come back with me,” she said, with urgency. “Five is so traumatized by the Apocalypse that he's afraid of so much as breathing on the timeline, and the others won't stand up to him. But we can fix this with the briefcase. Just you and me. Maybe I can persuade Luther too. You can leave this awful house behind. We can meet our past selves in 1963 and tell them not to talk to our father. Everything would be back to normal, except this time, you'd be with us. You'd be alive.”

“Uh, I'll think about it,” said One, because he had a sense it would be smarter to roll with whatever was going on.

“You'd love Claire. She's a little prima donna, but she's so smart for her age. She has such a beautiful laugh.” Allison was beaming. “I used to tell her stories about you. Whenever she saw a picture of a squid, she'd get so excited and ask me if that was the Horror.”

One was only loosely following the plot, but he said, “It's good to see you again, Allison.”

“Everything fell apart without you,” said Allison. “It took decades before we learned how to be a team again. I missed you so much, Ben. We all did.”

Number One felt a jolt of surprise. It must have shown on his face, because at once, Allison's head snapped up. “You're...you're not Ben, are you.”

“Uh, well...”

She jerked away. “But...you remember me, right?”

“Sure,” said One. “I mean, we've met before...at the, uh...”

He furrowed his brow in concentration. She was definitely familiar. All of their names and faces shone bright and clear in his mind, as though he'd seen their pictures every day of his life. But when he tried to place the source of the memory, or to recall any more details about the Umbrella Academy, everything became foggy.

The spark vanished from her eyes. “Never mind,” she whispered. “It's fake. It's always fake.”

She took a step back, as though surveying him from a cool distance. Within seconds, she composed herself, and the mask was back on. Number One thought she could be a half-decent actor if she ever quit her day job as a mediocre superhero.

“You know what,” said Allison, “if you want to be a soldier forever, go ahead.” She sighed. “Take it from me. Sometimes, it's not so bad to hold onto what you have.”

Before One could react, she'd disappeared back down the hall where she'd come from, her room forgotten. And One was left with so many questions that he decided to break it down to what he knew for sure.

There was a brother—Ben—whose absence had torn a hole so wide in the foundations of their team that it had crumbled. Even years later, their broken family was still reeling from the loss.

And for some reason, they acted as though One was this brother.

Then as he mulled over what his next move should be, Number One idly wondered what would happen to the others if he left. Really, it said something disgraceful about the Umbrella Academy if one death or disappearance could topple the whole house of cards.

That certainly wouldn't be a problem for the Sparrow Academy. Their father had drilled them on the order of succession. In the event that something happened to Number One, then Number Two would take over as leader. Astrid had been trained for this. After all, it was a contingency they needed to plan for—their lives were in danger often enough that basic probability meant that sooner or later, nature would take its course. Their job was to make the most of the time they'd been given on this earth to fight evil.

Number One was confident Astrid would do well. Astrid would have the right spirit for the job. She wasn't always good at thinking for herself—that would take practice. But she was brave, and organized, and persistent; she would keep the team disciplined. She would make sure the less physically inclined stayed on top of their daily workouts.

And granted, One's power was the deadliest, but Two was even better than him at taking out large groups of enemies at once, although her attacks had a higher risk of friendly fire. And Six could do damage with their toxic oral blasts at a narrower range. That still left them with plenty of firepower. And they would have a nice balance of abilities—Three for stealth and evasion, Four for healing, Five for targeted hits on individual foes, Seven for reconnaissance and psychological warfare.

They would still be a well-rounded team. Number One was confident that they'd hold up admirably without him.

No, they probably wouldn't miss him at all.


	4. Klaus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Cryptix23, electric016, and Nucci for their wonderful feedback. For reasons you can probably guess, this chapter was especially tricky, so this was definitely the one so far that benefited the most from outside help.

“Do you mean to tell me that you disobeyed a direct order, Number One?”

In his father's study, One swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Deep breaths. He gave his father the smile he'd perfected over decades—just the right blend of sycophancy and insolence to annoy Sir Reginald while maintaining plausible deniability. Certain tightropes were easy to walk, if you'd crossed them enough times.

“Well, Dad, you always told me a true leader needs to make his own decisions. You trained me so well that I thought I'd take initiative here.”

One couldn’t help smirking as his father's mouth thinned in irritation. He wasn't the scared boy who could be cowed with threats of being sent to bed without supper anymore.

“I don't have the patience for your attitude, Number One.” He rapped his bony white fingers upon his desk. “Spying on guests without my consent makes a mockery of my hospitality.”

“Dad, with all due respect, they're guests who are plotting to kill us.”

“In that case, let that be my concern. You are interfering in matters you do not understand. This is my house, and whomever I let stay here is my business.”

Anger was burning in One's chest. He stared his father down. “It's my house too. I think I'm owed an explanation.”

“Did you pay for this house?” asked Sir Reginald. “I fail to see what exactly I owe you.”

“You don't pay me to put my ass on the line for you,” said One, reveling in how his father's expression turned sour at the word “ass.”

“You're compensated with room and board and an allowance you refuse to spend sensibly,” said his father. “But you're a grown man. If you disagree with my rules, you're welcome to leave. Nothing is stopping you from cleaning toilets for a living, if that interests you more than saving the world.”

One bit the inside of his cheek. Every power struggle between them ended in the same impasse. His father needed One, and One needed his father.

“Number Three's report was intriguing,” continued Sir Reginald. “Have you seen this briefcase she mentioned?”

“No, Dad,” said One. “At first I thought it was a weapon. But Allison mentioned something about using a briefcase to change a timeline—”

The effect on his father was immediate. He stood up, ramrod straight, and clenched his jaw.

“What else did she say to you?” His father seemed to shake with rage.

For a moment, One thought about mentioning Ben, but instead he said, “Nothing important.”

“Are you certain of this?” asked his father, with a newfound urgency. “Think, Number One. Did she reveal anything else about timelines?”

Number One was struck with the instinct to be petty. If his father didn't feel the need to explain himself, then One could keep his own cards to his chest. “Nope, that's it.”

Sir Reginald pursed his lips, deep in focus, “You must find and destroy this briefcase.”

One didn't bother repressing his shit-eating grin. “So what you're saying is that I was right.”

His father furrowed his brow in exasperation. “No, what I'm saying is that you must destroy the briefcase.”

“You mean, to destroy this briefcase because I was right.”

“I said no such thing, Number One,” said his father. “You are dismissed.”

He stormed out of the office, fuming with rage. Why was it always so hard for Dad to say the words, “Well done, Number One”?

One felt the sudden urge to spite his father by spending his allowance in the least sensible way possible. After the week he'd been having, he really needed to unwind.

Later, he sat on the top step of the fire escape leading from the room with Christopher's charging dock. Outside, the setting sun was the colour of a sliced grapefruit in the darkening sky. He took a deep breath, letting the numbness spread through him, and felt his thoughts drift away like pollen in the wind.

Footsteps approached behind him. He craned his neck to see.

At the window stood Klaus; just like with Allison earlier, One was flooded with an unexplained sense of familiarity, as if he’d always known him. The open pack of cigarettes in his hand told One that Klaus had had a similar idea. On his face was an expression that One couldn't name, because it disappeared the moment Klaus caught him looking, transforming into a too-wide smile.

“Well, well, _well_ ,” said Klaus, waving the pack of cigarettes in the air. “If it isn't Number One. Ebony.” He smirked. “How are you...Ebony?”

“I'm busy,” said One, scowling. Apparently Luther couldn't keep his mouth shut.

“What's wrong, Ebony? Are you hiding from Daddy up—” He stopped and sniffed loudly. “Wait, is that—”

One felt his face heat up. He positioned himself so that his torso was blocking his hand. “Go away.”

“Holy shit,” said Klaus, laughing. “It's weed. You're actually smoking weed.”

“Just mind your own business,” said One. He stubbed out the joint on the metal stair.

“This is amazing. I never thought I'd see the day.” Klaus was rubbing his hands together in glee. “You. Doing drugs. Are you _sure_ that's a good idea? Isn't it weak to numb yourself like that?”

Number One rolled his eyes. “I didn't peg you as the straight-edge type.”

“No, seriously. Don't you know that it makes you stupid and lazy? Maybe you should stop being such a useless druggie and do something with your life for once. Some people would kill to be alive, after all.” He chuckled too loudly, and One wondered if he was drunk again. “And the smell! God, you reek like a dead skunk.”

Was Klaus jerking his chain or something? “Once in a blue moon isn't that big a deal,” said One. “Anyway, it's not like it's crack.”

“No,” said Klaus, looking crestfallen. “A pity.”

For a moment, Klaus stood frozen at the window, as if on the precipice of a decision. Then he stepped outside. Tentatively, he crawled over beside One on the top stair of the fire escape. When he sat down, Klaus's knee brushed against One's—Klaus pulled away with a jolt, as if he'd been shocked.

As Klaus bent over to pull a cigarette out of his pack, One caught a whiff of alcohol on Klaus's breath. “Can't you find somewhere else to smoke?” asked One.

“Nope, afraid not,” said Klaus, but for all his flippant tone of voice, he seemed to be scrutinizing One. For a moment, One was tempted to ask Klaus if his face was material on an exam Klaus was studying for.

Then Klaus leaned in with a hopeful expression. “Can I have some?”

One scoffed and turned away. “Of course n—” But before he knew it, Klaus had stuck his own cigarette behind his ear, and the extinguished joint was out of One’s hand.

“You're the best brother ever,” said Klaus.

“That wasn't a yes,” said One, but Klaus was already pulling out a lighter. As Klaus held the joint in his hand, he stared at it with far more weight than such a tiny thing deserved.

“I haven't done this in three years,” he said, in a softer voice. Then he gave a reckless laugh. “Ah, fuck it.” He raised it to his lips and struck the lighter, then took a deep drag. “God, I missed this.”

“Sure, why not?” said One sarcastically. “Thank you for asking for my permission.”

Klaus took a much bigger toke, one that made him cough. “Jesus Christ, I'm rusty,” he said. “Does Dad know you do this shit? Back in my tender youth, I'd get locked up for days if he caught me.” He shuddered. “Not that it'd stop me, of course.”

One shrugged. “Dad doesn't pay attention to ninety percent of what I do. I just need to haul my body to missions and make sure I bring everyone back in one piece.”

Something inscrutable flickered across Klaus's face. “Easier said than done.” Then whatever shadow One had seen was gone, replaced by a grin as manic as it was empty. Number One had never met anyone like Klaus before, whose features were always animated with a flurry of expressions, none of which seemed to say anything at all.

For a while, neither of them spoke as they stared at the horizon. Klaus glanced at One, then back at the sky. Gradually, he let his knee fall to the side as he smoked, until it was touching One's again. One froze, afraid that if he moved his leg away, the silence would be broken.

Then the silence was broken anyway when Klaus asked, “Does Dad still make you do ballroom dancing?”

Number One blinked in confusion at the non sequitur. “Why the hell would we do ballroom dancing?”

“Huh,” said Klaus, “things really have changed around here.” His eyes grew distant. “I remember we'd have these professional coaches flown in from France, like, teaching us advanced technique. As if Dad thought we'd compete in tournaments. Because he expected us to be perfect at everything, even if it was shit that didn't fucking matter. Ancient Greek, calligraphy, whatever. And—and my brother, he hated dancing. He would turn beet red and get stiff as a board whenever the teacher looked his way. Ebony, my man, do you like dancing?”

“Stop calling me that.” One scooted over a few inches so that they were no longer touching. “And not at all.” Actually, he wasn't sure he'd ever danced in front of another person.

“Figures.” A private smile came to Klaus’s lips. “My brother and I would partner up sometimes because there weren't enough girls. And I just loved to mess with him. Here he was, trying not to call attention to himself, and I'd start, fuck, belly-dancing or doing pelvic thrusts until the teacher lost her temper. But it made him laugh, you know? And that was all that mattered.” The smile turned wistful. “I think my best was the time I showed up to dance class in one of Allison's formal dresses. Dad hated that.”

Number One tried to imagine how it would feel to have that kind of childhood. Full of misadventures and scrapes and inside jokes with a partner in crime, where days didn't blur together into one unbroken chain of combat and training and emptiness.

“Which brother?” One asked, as though possessed.

Klaus stared at the joint in his hand. “It doesn't matter,” he said. “It was in the past.”

“We didn't do most of that stuff,” said Number One, the words rushing out in spite of himself. “Dad hired private tutors to give us a basic education. Beyond that, it was all martial arts and weapons training.”

“Weird.” Klaus frowned.

“Dad always said we were meant to be soldiers, not scholars,” said One. “Any hobbies we had outside of our training were our own business. I guess I should be grateful he didn't care enough to put us through that.”

“I'd have killed for that kind of freedom,” said Klaus. “We got a whopping half-hour a week to play like normal kids. The rest of the time, we couldn't take a shit unless it was on schedule.” He took another long drag. The joint was already much shorter, and One found his annoyance building. Not that he had a shortage of pocket money, but it was the principle. “But I guess you stayed, and we didn't. So maybe Dad did something right.”

“It's not like we had much free time either,” said One. “There was always something. Training. Press conferences. Experiments.”

“Experiments,” said Klaus, shivering. “Now that takes me back.”

At once, the conversation dried up. It was getting darker, and the cool night air made him pull his uniform jacket more tightly around himself. One took a deep breath, hoping he could at least get a weak contact high. Klaus was looking down at the alley below them, his eyes glassy.

Then Klaus said, “Well, it was a good run. Sobriety. A lovely effort.”

One shifted his weight on the stairs. This was becoming dangerously close to a confession. Following the implication would mean emotional labour that One refused to perform, so he let sleeping dogs lie. “Are you done with that yet?”

Klaus took another puff. “Give me a moment. Jesus, Ebony, you're a dick.”

“My name is Number One—”

“Yeah, whatever. The great leader. The captain of the ship.” Then Klaus turned to him. “It's hilarious. Absolutely fucking hilarious, you know. Everyone fawning over you like you were some saint. Like you didn't have a mean bone in your body. Then all of a sudden, they take one look at you here, and they flip their shit!” He let out a bitter laugh. “It's blowing their minds. How could pure little Number Six be so nasty? What went wrong?”

Klaus leaned in to whisper in his ear, the smell of pot and stale whiskey heavy on his breath. “But you and I know the secret, don't we?” His smile was all teeth and set One on edge. “This was always you, wasn't it? You couldn't hide the ugly side from me.”

One felt his skin crawl. “You don't know me,” he said. “You don't know the first thing about me.”

“You always were a cold and judgmental bastard,” said Klaus. “You could watch someone's heart break into a million pieces right in front of you, and you'd come back with pointers on all the ways he should be crying differently. Nothing changed, except you aren't forced to kiss anyone's ass now.” Without warning, he draped an arm around One's shoulder, roughly pulling him closer. “And you know what? That's what I love about you. Assholes are a lot more fun. ”

“Let go of me,” said One, shoving him off.

“Ow, rude!” Klaus made a show of grabbing his arm in exaggerated pain. “Hey, I'm not judging! All I'm saying is, they all think I'm the bad guy now. And I get it. No hard feelings on my part.” He gave an unconvincing laugh. “God knows I wouldn't want to be around me either if I had a choice. But does anyone give a shit about how it all made me feel? No, they want me to put on a big smile and hand you my body on a silver platter. Be a fucking radio instead of a person. Christ, I’m sick of it."

Then he took one last long drag on the joint, sucking on it until it was almost gone. “Here you go,” he said, handing One the useless stub.

“Gee, thanks,” snapped One. He flicked the roach over the railing.

“That made me thirsty.” Klaus reached into the pocket of his tight leather jacket and pulled out a flask. Tilting his head back, he took a long swig, swallowing deeply and wincing as it went down. Then he gave One an odd look. “Do you have anything stronger than this?”

“Than what?”

“Nothing,” said Klaus, letting out a forced laugh. “Just a joke. Just joshing!” He touched his forehead. “I could just really use some painkillers right now. My head is killing me.”

“Talk to Carla,” said One.

“Why Carla?”

“She can heal you,” said One. “That's sort of her whole thing.”

“It's just a headache,” said Klaus. “All I need is a Tylenol. Or an oxy, I'm not picky! I don't need any magic healing.”

“Well, we don't need Tylenol when Carla is here,” said One. “Aside from Guillaume's pills, pain isn't a problem for—”

“Guillaume,” said Klaus, pulling the flask he’d been drinking from out of his mouth. At once, he leaned in closer, much more attentive. “Remind me, who's that again?”

“Number Five,” said One. “He's the one who—well, with the face. He doesn't look quite human, on the outside. A treatment that went wrong.” Back when Guillaume had been a boy afraid of his own ability, the tissue that their father had harvested from spliced elephant DNA had been grafted onto Guillaume's skin to help him. Just a few small patches on key vital points, a protective layer to make it easier for him to damage himself without consequences. But the cells hadn’t stopped dividing, and over the years, the lumps had kept growing until Guillaume had become more growth than person. “But on the inside, he's...soft. Different from the rest of us.” It was a trait for which One had given Guillaume his share of grief over the years. “I don't know where it came from.”

“How sweet,” said Klaus. “I'm just surprised he'd need pills.”

“His power is...violent. Even with his modifications, it can be painful for him. He doesn't always like using it.” One had seen Guillaume go too far using it, voluntarily or otherwise, and the outcome was never pretty. “To hurt others, he needs to hurt himself. A little pinprick is enough for him to hold his own in a fist fight. But if the stakes are high enough...he might need to dose up before taking someone out. For the pain. So he can do what needs to be done without feeling it.”

“Ah,” said Klaus offhandedly. “Dose up on what, out of curiosity?”

“Why do you care?”

“No reason,” said Klaus. His eyes darted to the side. “Just concerned. A sweet guy like him, dabbling in narcotics. It seems dangerous if he's taking something without a prescription. Take it from me, that shit's a slippery slope.”

“Guillaume has a prescription. And he's responsible enough not to use them unless he needs to.”

“But the temptation!” shouted Klaus, waving his flask for emphasis. “Don't you think that would be impossible to resist? Just having them on hand all the time. I would keep them locked up if it were me. Stored away somewhere I couldn't reach.”

One shrugged. “He only brings them on missions. The rest of the time he leaves them in the infirmary.”

“Ah. I see.” Klaus smiled. “You're all so responsible. Gosh. What happened to you? How were you raised so well?”

“That's not how I'd describe it,” said One. “But at least we have our shit together.” The “unlike you people” didn't need to be stated.

“Look at you all,” said Klaus, “the perfect little army. Gotta hand it to Dad. He got into your heads. Or didn't get into them enough to fuck you up like us.” His words were starting to bleed together, and he was blinking a lot, as though disoriented. “Wouldn’t it be nice to start all over? You and me, Be—Ebony. Ebony. How it used to be. Before everything went to shit between us.” His voice caught on the last sentence. “Fuck it. I can't talk to you like this. I need another drink.” Klaus tipped back his flask, his Adam's apple bobbing as he knocked its contents back. It was another ten seconds before he resurfaced for air.

“Jesus,” said Klaus, shuddering. “That burns.”

“Uh, shouldn't you slow down?” asked One.

“Aw, just like old times,” said Klaus. He leaned in closer, causing One to pull away. “Trust me, Ebony, it's fine. I'm used to living dangerously.”

“For the last time, my name is Number One.”

“Whatever.” He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “God, you're so uptight. Did this version of you get an even more massive stick shoved up your ass?”

“No,” said One. By now, he was pressed against the railing, Klaus sprawled on the top stair and taking up most of the space. “Just go away.”

Klaus let out a humourless laugh. “Fine,” he said spitefully, flailing an arm out toward One. “Sorry. I forgot how perfect you were.” Then his gaze stopped on One’s face, and the bile drained from his eyes like a lanced blister. With more sadness than bitterness, he added, “So annoyingly perfect.” At once, his mood seemed to change on a dime. His body language shifted, and he slumped over as though overtaken by a fit of melancholy. As Klaus stared into space, shrunken in on himself, for once he was still. “They were right. You deserved so much better than to be stuck with me.”

“You've got that right,” said One. “I barely know you, and I already can't think of anything worse than being stuck with you.”

“Exactly,” said Klaus, who seemed to be talking more to himself than to One. “That was it, wasn't it? I couldn't face that. I should’ve known Dave was a fluke. Like lightning striking or some shit. No one else stays if they have a choice.” He was speaking slowly, like it was taking all his concentration not to stumble over the words. “Would I have said something? I wonder. Maybe I never would have. Just held it over your head forever. Sure, you’d hate me, but at least you wouldn’t ignore me. Isn’t that fucked up?” There was a heavy silence. Klaus wrapped his wiry arms around his knees. In that moment, he looked slight and frail. “And now it's too late.”

One was completely lost. Judging from the gibberish this man was spouting, all the substances in his system were starting to take their toll. Calling as little attention to himself as he could manage, One stood up.

“You know,” Klaus continued, “maybe I don't actually miss you. It's more like...losing a day planner.” He took another swig of his drink. “Or a limb, or...like...a piece of my brain. Who am I now? Do I even know how to be a person anymore?”

Then Klaus turned to One with a big, empty grin. “But hey, Ebony, it's all right. You're cool.” He stood to his feet, wobbling for just a moment before catching himself. “None of this makes any fucking sense to you. And that's okay. That's valid, man.”

With his free hand, he tried to reach for One's arm, but he lost his balance and lurched forward. “Whoa. Shit.” Just in time, he grabbed the railing of the fire escape behind One, bumping into him.

A faint alarm was starting to ring in One's mind. Something was clearly wrong, but he didn't know how to react. This wasn't like rescuing hostages or children trapped in a burning building, where what constituted help was clear. This was trying to solve a puzzle where you couldn't see any of the pieces, where even _touching_ the pieces was like dipping your hands into an icy bath.

“Uh, you're okay, right?” he managed. “You're not going to throw up or anything?”

“What do you mean?” Klaus laughed, leaning against the railing. “I'm doing fantastic. I haven't felt better in years! We should have a party on the roof. Just you and me.”

Number One decided that was his cue to extricate himself from the situation. “I should go inside.” Turning around, he headed toward the window.

“Wait!”

He stopped and looked back. Klaus's eyes were large and wet and hungry. It made One recoil, realizing that whatever Klaus needed so badly was something he wanted One to provide.

“You can stay longer,” said Klaus, his voice full of desperation.

“There's no point,” said One. “In case you haven't noticed, some asshole just smoked all my weed.”

An odd expression came to Klaus’s face. “There's a lot left in here,” he said, motioning to the flask in his hand. “I wonder what would happen if I chugged it all right now. The whole thing. Do you think I could do it in under a minute?”

Number One blinked. “Knock yourself out.”

“I should do it,” said Klaus. In his voice was a challenge. “There are bottles of Dad's good shit downstairs. I could go crazy. I could even give myself alcohol poisoning. Wouldn't that be funny?”

Apparently, One's decision to leave had come not a moment too soon, because this was far past his limit for how much of Klaus he was willing to tolerate. “Sounds like a real barrel of laughs.”

“It's dangerous up here,” said Klaus. “Me alone. Drinking on the fire escape like this. I might slip and crack my skull.” The gleam in his eyes unsettled One. It was the look of someone who had doused himself in kerosene and was about to strike a match. “Pretty irresponsible of me, right? You know, I wonder. A control freak like you. How far would I have to go before you tried to stop me?” He paused, as though struck by a sudden realization. “Would you _ever_ try to stop me?”

Number One was at a loss to what reaction Klaus was fishing for. Maybe Klaus had a point—certainly One wasn't shy about making suggestions, directions, _critiques._ But there was a difference between telling Morrigan to fly southwest and Christopher to torment the sniper on the hill with visions of zombies and Leslie to stop shirking leg day, and between stopping whatever car crash was happening before his eyes. The simplest solution, One decided, was not to rise to the bait.

“I'm not your keeper,” said One. “Do whatever you want to yourself.”

Deflated, Klaus sank to his knees. “Looks like I finally got my wish.” As he clumsily pulled out a cigarette, he gave a weak smile, one that felt like the furthest thing from a real smile that One had ever seen. “I'm free at last.”

Those words rang with the cold finality of death, their icy imprints lingering on One's brain long after he'd left Klaus smoking outside and gone back into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two chapters are currently kicking my ass, so it might be some time before they're ready for public consumption.
> 
> By the way, shameless plug: if you are looking for a space to discuss The Umbrella Academy with older fans (we exist too!), vent about writing, find beta readers for TUA fanfic, etc., you can click on [this link](https://discord.gg/3PsV2Gjkb8) to join the Elliott's House Discord server. It's a public server with close to 130 members after only a couple of months, but we're very chill and welcoming to newbies. The only requirements are that you are eighteen years old or older and capable of coexisting with all kinds of fans and treating people with respect.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait--this chapter was a tough one.
> 
> This chapter has content warnings in the end notes that are spoilers, so it's your choice whether to check them. I don't think there's anything worse than content in the show itself, but it gets dark in places.

Leslie's face stayed blank while One gave his instructions.

“If you want me to,” they said, as soon as One had finished.

One scowled. “My father wants us to.”

“Whatever,” said Leslie. “In that case, I guess that's what we're doing.”

Number One clenched a fist at his side and took a deep breath. It always drove him crazy when Leslie flaunted their lack of enthusiasm.

By design, no one else was in the third-floor hallway when they walked upstairs. While Sir Reginald distracted the Umbrella Academy with a conveniently timed meeting, One and Leslie were taking advantage of the opportunity to search the guest rooms. As the two of them scoured every nook and cranny, Leslie went at a glacial pace, making a huge show of how much physical exertion it took to open each drawer.

Leslie hadn't always been like this. Once upon a time, although they’d still had a sullen, melancholy streak, they'd cared too much, if anything. After the elementary school fire, things hadn't been the same. It should have been a simple mission, but One had gambled on Leslie’s power extinguishing fire instead of fueling it, and Leslie had set aside their doubts and trusted One’s plan—both fatal errors. Neither of them ever mentioned the children, or how Leslie had fallen to pieces when it had happened. And to Leslie’s credit, they’d never said it was One’s fault, even though both of them knew it had been. But it was around then that the veneer of detached irony had started. The barely concealed snark at every order One gave.

The first two rooms came up empty, but in the third, One and Leslie got lucky. Underneath the double bed in the centre of the room was a plain leather briefcase.

“This must be it,” said One.

“It does look like a briefcase,” said Leslie, in a voice so expressionless that a stranger might not have detected the sarcasm.

Number One hid his irritation. They were on a mission, and leadership meant suppressing what you actually wanted to say sometimes. “Number Six, do your job.”

Leslie reached under the bed and pulled out the briefcase. “You might want to look away for this part,” they said, kneeling over.

One heard a grotesque retching noise. Black sludge spewed out of Leslie’s mouth and all over the briefcase. As the case burned away as though dissolved in acid, blue sparks of electricity shot out in all directions. He heard the zap of circuitry frying.

“That definitely wasn't a normal briefcase,” said One, staring at the smoking wreck of corroded metal and exposed wires on top of the scorched carpet.

“Oh, what gave it away?” asked Leslie.

He frowned. “Let's go. We didn't buy ourselves enough time—”

Then a shockwave rippled through his mind, bowling him over.

He closed his eyes, gasping at the signal’s raw power. When he opened them, he saw Leslie clutching their head and breathing shakily. Clearly they'd received the same message from Christopher. “We need to go,” they said, their stony facade broken by a faint crease of worry across their forehead.

One's body switched to autopilot. He ran out the door, down the hall, and Six followed close behind.

A second blast hit him, this one less visceral, but providing a clearer picture. Fear—Guillaume's fear, as passed on by Christopher. A cry for help. Grief, losing some of its power in the translation, but still splitting through One's core. And it was coming from the second floor.

The beacon must have reached everyone, because now the others were coming too. Morrigan's flock rushed in a V above their heads. On the stairwell, as One and Leslie descended, they saw Carla and Astrid running up from the ground floor, Astrid still in her jogging sweats from training. They met on the second floor landing, assuming their formation as they sprinted down the hall, One in front, Astrid and Carla behind him, Morrigan in the air, Leslie behind Carla. In danger, they reverted to their programming. By now, the order was etched into their bones and muscles.

They were halfway down the hall when Christopher soared by.

“What is it, Number Seven?” asked One.

Christopher glowed a brilliant lime green and emitted a shrill whine.

Instantly, One's mind was flooded with more images and sensations. Fear that was more subdued now, abating. Anxiety, confusion—but no pain. Bright lights, wood paneling, antiseptic odours. The infirmary. On the floor, a pale figure. A man. Guillaume's hand against his face, the skin cold.

One let out a snort. “Really, is Guillaume making such a fuss over a dead body? He needs to toughen up.”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to the others. “Looks like it's a false alarm, guys,” said One.

“Maybe he was attacked,” said Astrid, still blinking as she recovered from the transmission. “There might be more enemies.”

“Christopher would have known if it was anything serious,” said Leslie. The worried expression disappeared, replaced with their normal mix of impassivity and disdain.

“We should still go check for threats,” said Astrid.

One nodded. “It could be the Umbrella Academy attacking.” He tried to remember—had he seen that man before? When Christopher's power passed on a memory, you didn't get the specifics, only a faint copy of what the original beholder had perceived.

“I didn't see any wounds,” said Carla. “It didn't seem like a fight. I would have sensed it, I think. Even third-hand like this.”

“Perfect,” said Leslie, “another fun-filled waste of our time.”

“It couldn't hurt for me to check the carcass anyway to see if I can figure out how it croaked,” said Carla. “I mean, it’s still an unexplained body in our house.”

Leslie crossed their arms. “Sounds to me like it’s Tuesday.”

“What the hell are you all doing?”

One turned around. Behind him was a boy in a school uniform not so different from his own. Five, One's brain handily supplied thanks to Allison, although it still felt strange to associate the name with someone other than Guillaume.

“This isn't your concern, kid,” said One, with a roll of his eyes.

“Excuse me?” snapped Five. “One of you damaged some personal property of mine that's irreplaceable. That's definitely my concern.”

One felt his heart sink. Dad was supposed to have stalled them for hours. He covered his nervousness with a laugh. “You've got a mouth.” Turning around, he continued down the hall—

A flash of blue, and then the kid was standing in front of him. This time, holding an axe.

“You're clearly up to something,” said Five. “Who are you chasing after? And have you seen my brother?”

One chuckled. “How cute,” he said. “Get out of my way—”

Five vanished.

Sudden pain in his neck. At once, he clutched his throat, gasping for air. His brain felt starved of oxygen. The hall was spinning, his vision turning white. Distantly, he realized, _the Sicilian chokehold_. Number One must have performed that maneuver himself a hundred times. Just as he managed to take in a wheezing breath, a jab to his stomach made him double over. More blue light, a flash of movement too fast for One's eyes. Another blow to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Another.

Something struck the back of his knee. His leg crumpled, and he tripped. Falling onto his hands and knees, One tried to stand, but at once, the blade of the axe was at his throat. “Don’t try anything,” said Five from behind.

He nodded weakly. The axe swung away from him, and a foot pressed down on his back, forcing him onto his stomach. Cold steel touched the back of his neck.

As One tasted the hardwood floor in his mouth, still winded, his throat and stomach aching, he replayed the scuffle in his mind to pinpoint where he'd slipped. The most unsettling part hadn't been Five's teleportation, or his skill, or his ruthlessness for a boy his age. It had been the blows to the stomach. To open the portal and harness his power, One needed to flex his abdominal muscles, but the pressure points Five had struck were exactly those needed to incapacitate him.

How had Five known?

“All right, you little shits,” said Five, in a voice that was pregnant with menace despite how it cracked with puberty, “here's the deal. I've got an axe, and I know a thousand ways to kill a man. You're going to tell me which of you destroyed the briefcase and where you're all rushing to in such a hurry.”

“We don't share our battle plans with outsiders,” said Astrid.

The boy gave a sadistic laugh. “This isn’t a request. Your brother gets it if you don't tell me. And if it turns out one of you touched a hair on _my_ brother's empty head, then your brother gets it painfully.”

“You know he's not our brother, right?” said Carla. “None of us are related.”

One felt the blade release from his neck. “You grew up together,” said Five, sounding horrified. “That's the same thing!”

Leslie shrugged. “It was more of a boarding school, really.”

Turning his head as well as he could manage in his position, One looked up at the boy, noticing how taken aback he seemed. Clearly, this wasn't the reaction Five had expected. “I don't care if you're brothers or cousins or roommates or members of the same anime club. I'm going to murder your Number One if you don't talk.”

“There are five of us and one of you,” said Astrid, not batting an eye. “I like our odds here.”

Cold sweat stuck to his skin. He'd been in similar tight spots—not quite the same hold, but the same level of danger. The lyrics changed, but never the tune. This probably wasn't the end. But they never knew. They never really knew.

“Don't think I won't do it,” said Five, a feral edge in his voice. “This stranger is nothing to me now.”

The crows swarmed around Five, positioning themselves in a circle as if preparing to dive-bomb him. When One craned his neck up, he saw Astrid spread her arms, glowing white. Even from where he was lying prone on the floor, One could feel the heat emanate off her. Leslie opened their mouth wide.

“Hey, wait!” shouted One. The boy could disappear in a flash, leaving Number One as the target if they struck.

But then the boy grabbed his shoulders, and One felt a dizzying disorientation. Then sudden nausea, a feeling of no gravity, of pressure squeezing the air from his lungs. It reminded him of when he'd been launched at terminal velocity into space on missions. Then at once, it stopped, and One found himself on his knees on the other end of the hallway, Five still holding him. The wood was blackened to ash where they'd stood, a few embers still smouldering. Above the spot, birds were fluttering erratically in confusion.

The boy raised the axe over One's head. “Do you really want to try any funny business?”

The others turned to Astrid, waiting to take cues from her. For just a moment, she looked unsure of herself. Her eyes darted to One's face, then to Five's, and One thought he detected an amateurish flash of fear. But then she gritted her teeth in resolve. She started to glow again.

“This is your last warning,” said Five, raising his voice with a menace that felt almost performative. “If you try that again, you won't like the consequences.”

The birds cawed and flapped their wings more aggressively. Christopher started to hum and whir, and Carla and Leslie adopted battle stances.

Then Number One had a strange realization. This boy wasn't going to kill him. In fact, of the six other people in this hallway, the boy might have been the person least willing to do it.

“The infirmary,” choked out One.

“Excuse me?” asked Five.

“There's a body in the infirmary.”

With a flash of light, the boy was gone.

“Why did you do that?” snapped Astrid. Her normally cheerful demeanour was gone; in fact, she seemed more angry than he'd seen in years.

“Hours of interrogation training,” said Carla incredulously, as she walked toward him. “We've withstood waterboarding, isolation chambers, sleep deprivation. But a little boy talking to you in an angry voice was too much for you?”

A flash of green light, then a jolt to the base of his skull. Christopher was better at transmitting non-verbal communication, but he could manage simple phrases. At once, a single word echoed through One's mind.

 _Coward_.

One felt cold all over. “Just...shut up. I wasn't afraid.” Whatever he'd experienced instead of fear, he couldn't place. It was something far outside his vocabulary. “It didn't matter either way.”

“You were the one telling us not to trust them,” said Morrigan, dusting herself off as she returned to human form next to One. “What about the briefcase?”

“Crazy as it sounds, I think he was on my side,” said One.

“Number One, he just attacked you with an axe,” said Astrid with disbelief, along with just a bit of defensiveness. “Our protocol is not to capitulate. You already know this.”

He glanced at the charred wood where he’d been standing earlier. At the thought that he might have been a pile of ash on the floor had Five been a heartbeat slower on the uptake, One felt a flash of indignation. “Were you actually going to just let me die?”

They met his gaze levelly.

“We were going to fight him,” said Astrid. “Of course we couldn't just give him what he wants.”

“I mean, he was outnumbered,” said Morrigan, in a soft voice. “And he was a kid.”

Carla rolled her eyes. “You weren't going to actually die. Come on.”

An uneasy feeling was gnawing at One. “You know, none of you seemed all that broken up about it,” he said, trying to keep the accusatory note out of his voice. “Were you hoping he'd do it or something?”

Leslie laughed. “Don't you think that's paranoid? If we were plotting to kill you, we’d have done it years ago.”

“Thanks for the reassurance. I think.”

“You may be insufferable half the time, but of course we don't want you dead,” said Carla.

“Yeah, that'd be crazy,” said Morrigan. She smiled at the absurdity. “I mean, team cohesion would fall apart.”

“Anyway, I'm not ready to take over,” said Astrid, with a modest chuckle. “I need at least three hundred more hours of tactics training. We still need you, Number One.”

His mouth was dry. “Right,” said One, forcing his expression to stay neutral. Of course they needed him. He didn't know why he felt sick all of a sudden. “We should hurry and—”

Another flash of blue.

Five was standing in front of them, his entire demeanour changed. He was shaking and pale, as if he'd just woken from a night terror.

“Where's Grace?” he asked.

Astrid wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Who?”

“We need a doctor,” said Five, a tremor in his voice. “Right now. It's an emergency.”

Carla raised her hand. “That would be me.”

“The infirmary. Do you have naloxone?”

She frowned. “Why would we have naloxone? We have some supplies in case I'm out of commission, but—”

Before she could continue her sentence, Five swore to himself and vanished.

They stood frozen in confusion in the hallway.

“We should go check,” said Astrid.

When they arrived, the infirmary was unusually bright, all the lights at their maximum setting. They walked past the slab where Christopher's human body was hooked up to life support, toward the back corner of the room. Beside the medicine cabinet, Guillaume was kneeling over a man lying sideways on the white-and-black checkered floor.

“The boy put him in the recovery position,” he said, sounding nervous. “I don't know what else to do.”

Coldly, One walked over and took in the scene. The man lay far too still, limbs hanging limply. His face was bloodless, a bluish tinge on his lips. Klaus.

“I just came to get my medication. You know...for training later.” Guillaume flinched. They didn't know quite what Guillaume's training with their father entailed, but they all knew how he felt about it. Personally, Number One would have enjoyed his own much more if he'd been granted permission to come doped up. “And then I found him lying here.”

From the scratches, the lock on the medicine cabinet seemed to have been pried open. Number One didn't need to look for long to find the half-empty pill container by Klaus's hand.

“Does he have a pulse?” asked Carla.

Then the door swung open. Diego barrelled through. “Let me see,” he said, shoving them aside. As he knelt by Klaus, he was trembling all over. He grabbed Klaus by the shoulder and started shaking him frantically. “Wake up, you fucking asshole.”

Klaus's shoulder jerked slightly, but gave no response. His head lolled to the side.

Allison and Luther ran in behind, both looking terrified.

“Is he okay, Diego?” asked Allison. When she got a closer look, she let out a sob. She turned to hug Luther, who wrapped a huge arm around her.

“I had no idea,” said Luther, looking sick with guilt. “I thought he'd skipped the meeting on purpose.”

Behind them, Vanya walked in. She did an obvious double-take when she saw Christopher's body on the slab, but didn't linger. At the sight of Klaus on the ground, the colour seemed to drain from her face. For just a moment, the lights in the room flickered.

“Oh, no,” said Vanya, covering her mouth.

Without saying a word, Luther reached for Vanya with his other arm. He pulled her over and held both women close, their heads buried in his massive torso.

The heavy atmosphere in the infirmary was choking One. He felt out of place, and from looking at the rest of his teammates, he wasn't alone. For just an instant, a flicker of Christopher's discomfort filtered into One's brain before the signal was cut off. They all stood stiffly on the outskirts. None of them had witnessed this kind of grief before, and it felt indecent to watch.

In that moment, Number One realized that he would never have to feel pain like this. No one in his life could ever become this kind of wound for him, no more than he could wound someone else this way. He should consider himself blessed.

A flash of blue, and then Five appeared.

“He's hardly breathing,” he said. “Someone needs to put him on a respirator. Or do CPR. Fucking something. Since no one in this house thought far enough ahead to buy Narcan.”

Carla took a step forward. “We don't need Narcan, genius.”

Five snapped at her. “Excuse me? You just left opiates unattended. What did you expect to happen?”

“I'm the only one with the key to that cabinet,” Guillaume protested. “I don't know how he broke in.”

Carla shook her head. “Some people need to learn how to shut up and let me handle things.”

“We can take care of this without your help,” said Allison, a barely restrained iciness in her voice. “It's a family matter.”

“In your hands, he's going to die any minute,” said Carla. “Look at him.”

“You've done more than enough damage today,” said Allison bitterly, and One wondered if Five had managed to tell them about the briefcase amid all this chaos.

Carla knelt beside Diego. “Just move over.”

He whipped out a knife. “Don't you touch my brother.”

“I'm saving your brother's life. No thanks to any of you.”

Carla clucked her tongue and put her hands on his chest.

“Come on, you idiot,” she said. “Stay with me.”

She was gentle as she touched him. Her hands started to glow. Energy flowed through them to his chest, bathing Klaus in a golden light. She let her hands travel across his rib cage, and the light spread down his sternum and up his throat, shining translucently through his skin. A tranquil smile came to her face. It always surprised One to watch Carla heal someone and see her change into a different person. When she wasn't healing, Carla was never gentle.

Klaus’s eyelids fluttered. He shuddered, then coughed.

“Hey,” she said, stroking his hair. “You made it, okay? Now don't do anything so stupid again.”

As though his body hungered for as much air as possible, Klaus took a gasping breath. Carla stood back.

Instantly, the tension in the infirmary released. Even Five seemed less murderous.

“Thank God,” said Allison, covering her face in her hands.

With a groan, Klaus sat up, blinking woozily. “What happened?”

“You overdosed,” said Carla.

“Oh,” he said, in a quiet voice. “I guess that checks out.”

When Klaus looked up to see the others standing there, his face fell for just an instant. Then he flashed an unconvincing grin. “Hey, guys,” he said, with forced cheer. “Nice to see you all.”

Then Diego swung a punch at his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” screamed Diego, as Klaus shrunk away.

Clutching his nose, Klaus said, “Charming as always.”

“Are you trying to kill yourself or something?” When Klaus stayed silent, Diego shouted, “Answer me!”

“Of course not.” He pulled his hand away, staring at the spot of blood on his fingers. “Nothing happened, sheesh. I'm fine.”

“You nearly died, Klaus,” said Allison. “ _Again._ What is this, the seventh or eighth time this has happened to you?”

“Who's counting?” Klaus forced a laugh. Although he still seemed lethargic and his face was sheet-white, he was smiling. “Anyway, it's okay, guys. Just a bit of a mishap. Everything is perfectly under control now.”

Luther shook his head in disbelief. “Right. Because this is clearly what under control looks like.”

“Man, I can't believe you're on that shit again,” said Diego, his disappointment palpable even to One. “But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Not like you were honest about anything else.”

The smile on Klaus's face wavered. Without the facade, he looked pale and drawn and tired to the bone.

“Why do you people always assume the worst of me?” asked Klaus with halfhearted indignation, but he didn't seem to be able to meet Diego's eyes. “It's not what it looks like, I swear. I just, you know, had a really bad headache. And I thought that...I...I thought—”

He trailed off. The light extinguished from his eyes, as though he'd burned through his last ounce of energy. His head hung in the kind of defeat that came after losing a lifelong battle.

“—yeah,” he finished weakly. There was a long, suffocating pause. “I just...look, okay, it was one fuck-up. Three or four pills used to be nothing for me, you know, but I forgot my tolerance had gone to shit—”

“Uh, you're only supposed to take half a tablet at a time,” said Guillaume.

Klaus winced. “Well, that's _great_ to know now,” he said, in a strained voice. “Anyway, we can all move along. Haha, yet another classic Klaus moment to add to the highlight reel, nearly as funny as the time I passed out naked on the dining room table.”

“I think we're not finished here,” said Luther.

“Spare me the lecture,” said Klaus, recoiling like a stray cat hissing at the person trying to rescue it.

“Maybe you need a lecture,” said Diego. “It's time someone stopped your bullshit instead of enabling you—”

“I think we should stop,” said Allison. Her smile was brittle.

“No, Allison,” said Luther. “If he wants attention so badly, here it is. Or is this going to be like before, where we look the other way for fifteen years while he poisons himself?”

“Like you have the high ground over me on this anymore,” said Klaus, making Luther turn pink.

“I just mean that maybe this is something we should talk about _alone_ ,” said Allison, motioning around them to One and the others in the Sparrow Academy.

“I don't fucking care what they think of us,” said Diego. “Everything out in the open now. I'm done with lies. Done with doing what Dad wants us to.”

“Spoken like a true idiot,” said Five.

As Diego flung a knife at the boy that nicked the collar of his blazer, One felt a nasty flicker of schadenfreude. He should have known their brief unity in grief had been an illusion. Here was a group he could feel superior about not belonging to again.

“These people are our enemies,” said Allison. “We really don't have to share our dirty laundry with them.”

“So what, you're on Five's side?” asked Diego.

Allison shook her head. “I'm on no one's side. You've all made that obvious from the start.”

“Guys,” said Vanya feebly, “can you please stop it—”

“None of you can see beyond the confines of your pea-sized skulls,” said Five. “You think I like this any more than you do? But this is about the big picture. Not your petty personal problems.”

“Oh, I'm sorry that I’m not a sociopath like you,” said Allison, with an acerbic laugh. “Maybe I didn’t want to give up because I'm the only one here who used to have something worth living for.”

Luther turned to Allison with a wounded puppy-dog expression as if slapped. Meanwhile, Vanya's stare became cold. “You aren't the only one who's left someone behind,” she said in a low voice.

Diego was still focused on Five. On his face was an audacious grin, as though Diego knew he was about to provoke Five and relished the fight. “So this is how you’re gonna live your life, Five? Kiss our father’s ass forever? Make up for lost time by pretending you’re thirteen again? Man, I never knew you were such a chicken.”

“Don’t you _dare_ call me a chicken,” snarled Five, lashing out like a wild animal. His face turned red, and the veins in his forehead were throbbing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. In my shoes, you’d have slit your throat after the first week. Call me a chicken again, and I’ll staple your rectum to your eyelids.”

Klaus let out a guffaw, and Diego spun toward him. “You’re not off the hook yet, ghost boy,” said Diego.

“Oh, but I am,” said Klaus, his mouth stretched into a death’s-head rictus. “I already did my part for the family today. Because of me, you all got to feel better about yourselves for a few minutes. Now that that’s over, you can leave me out of your pissing match.” Although his hair was matted with sweat, he was trembling like someone caught in a snowstorm. “Hey, I’ve got a burning question for you guys. Why do you even _care_ what I put into my body?” He motioned to Allison. “I mean, you just said I have nothing to live for, right? You should thank me for giving you free fucking entertainment!” His voice shook on the last sentence. “Maybe next time I'll have a seizure for real. Wouldn't that be a laugh?”

“You idiot, we care because we want you to stop putting your life in danger!” yelled Diego.

“No you don't,” shouted Klaus, by this point not restraining his emotion. “Stop pretending you give a shit. You all hate me!”

“It doesn't matter if I hate you. I still fucking love you, you dickhead!”

The room went silent.

Diego shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Um...yeah. You heard me.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Klaus, in a subdued voice. Whatever Klaus was feeling right now, One couldn’t read it.

Allison winced. “I think what Diego is _trying_ to say is that even when we’re fighting, we still want what’s best for you.” Standing behind Klaus, she touched his shoulder. “You’re our brother.”

“Ally, it’s fine,” said Klaus, with a smile that was clearly supposed to appear casual. “I get it. No biggie. You didn’t choose me as family. You don’t have to say shit like that to make me feel better.”

“I’m serious! I was mad at you, Klaus.” She glanced at the others. “Actually, I was mad at a lot of people in this family, if I'm being honest. But that doesn't mean I don't love you all.”

One rolled his eyes. This was so cheesy.

For the first time in minutes, Vanya spoke up. “I’m not going to let you struggle alone.” She knelt beside Klaus on the floor and looked him in the eyes. “You were there for me at the barn. Now it's time for me to return the favour.”

“Wow, that's...” Klaus stopped as though something was caught in his throat. His eyes grew big and watery. “Thanks, Vanny.”

He grabbed the tiny woman in a tight hug. Allison sighed, then begrudgingly got on her knees and wrapped her arms around the two of them.

In the back of the room, Guillaume sniffled, and One noticed that his eyes were red-rimmed. One cringed at how his Five was embarrassing the team in front of these strangers.

The other, younger Five didn't move toward them, but his voice was gentler. “Don't let that happen again, Klaus,” he said. “I didn't stop the end of the world twice just to lose one of you to a stupid overdose.”

Klaus squirmed in his sisters’ arms, but said nothing.

“All right,” said Diego, “that’s enough. We all need to get our shit together.” He walked over to the circle. For a moment, One thought Diego would join the hug, but he seemed to think better of it. “We're Team Zero. No more arguing. No more bullshit. No more shifting the blame.”

The scene made One want to throw up. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop with a malicious pleasure. Soon they’d start fighting again. These idiots couldn't be functional for more than two minutes. With a smirk, he turned to Astrid, but she was only frowning, watching them with an uneasiness that bordered on an existential crisis. Like seeing live fairies or goblins, something that shook her worldview to the core.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Diego is right,” said Five. “No matter how much you numbskulls irritate me, we have to work together to have a hope of survival.”

“I know I haven't always been the best brother,” said Luther, clapping Diego on the shoulder. “But I'm learning. We can all learn together. This time around, no one gets left behind. When one of us is in trouble, we listen.”

Number One scowled, his annoyance building. At any moment, they'd fall apart, he was sure of it. Diego would shout at one of them, or Five would say something cutting, or Allison would argue with the others over the briefcase. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t last.

“Right now, we have no one else in the world except for each other,” said Allison. “We have to stick together.”

“I agree,” said Vanya. “We've already lost Ben, so I don't want to—”

“Shut up!” screamed Number One.

They all turned at him. He was breathing heavily, sweating all over and yet somehow cold.

“Can't you get a room or something?” he snapped. “People are watching right now. Have some decency.”

Klaus laughed. “Someone has his panties in a wad.”

“You're supposed to be superheroes,” said One, scandalized. “This is pathetic.”

There was a wicked grin on Luther's face. “Okay, show of hands, who wants me to punch Ebony?”

Most of the Umbrella Academy (as well as both Carla and Leslie) raised their hands. The only exception was Vanya, who was watching him with sadness, along with something he hoped wasn't pity.

“Maybe we should go,” said Morrigan quickly. Perched on top of the X-ray machine, she'd had her eyes averted for most of the exchange, as if something obscene had been happening below.

Astrid turned to One, the question in her eyes implicit. He nodded. This exchange was burrowing like a botfly into his skin, making him writhe in discomfort, and he felt an overpowering urge to escape.

Just as they were about to leave, Allison approached Carla. “Hey,” she said, “thanks.”

Carla gave a casual shrug. “I told you I'd take care of it,” she said, but One caught a small grin on her face.

And One stormed out of the infirmary, not bothering to wait for the rest of the Sparrow Academy. As he fled down the hall, no one came after him. At the top of the stairs, he sat down, unable to escape the sick and cloying feeling that stuck to him like treacle.

What was wrong with these people? You couldn't just make a fool of yourself by being vulnerable like that. It made him embarrassed on their behalf. Besides, doing that was asking to be hurt. All you could expect in response was derision from your father or an impersonal smile from your newest nanny. “Number One, I'm busy,” or “That's nice, Master One, now finish brushing your teeth,” or “Enough with that pathetic weakness, Number One, you're going to be a leader someday.” You’d have to be stupid to risk it.

He'd hate having that kind of family. It would be nothing but a burden, when he'd become so good at relying on himself. All of them suffocating you with their emotions, wanting your time and energy, having needs they expected you to fill. Growing up in that environment would be torture—unless it turned you into someone who was capable of loving them back.

As he sat on the stairs, trying to steady his breathing, he wished that the Umbrella Academy had never come into his life. That he’d never known people like them existed in the world.

“Well, that was an adventure,” said Five, appearing in a flash of blue right next to him.

“You don't want to be with your family?” asked One.

“Lots of people are willing to be the shoulder to cry on in a crisis,” said Five. “But sometimes you just need someone to roll up his sleeves and shovel the shit behind the scenes.” He sighed. “And I’m always the unlucky bastard with the shovel.”

One crossed his arms. “Am I the shit in this scenario?”

“I'm not done with you,” said Five. “Why did you destroy the briefcase?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Who are you protecting? Your father? Those assholes who were about to let me kill you?”

It surprised him how much the question stung. “It wasn't anything personal. They were putting the mission above one person.”

“You know, I'm something of an expert on sacrificing people for the greater good,” said Five. “But the difference is I had people who I'd choose over the greater good, if push came to shove. It was all that kept me going.”

One shrugged, staring into space.

“What keeps you going, One?” asked Five.

The words came slowly, as if he was fumbling for them in the dark. “I have a purpose,” he said, although he wasn't sure if he believed it. “I like the responsibility of saving the world. I like feeling like it means something.”

“I get that. But it doesn't mean anything if you do it alone. Trust me, I'd know.”

They sat on the stairs for a while, something unreadable in the boy's eyes that made him seem wise beyond his years. Finally One built up the courage to speak again. “Can I ask you something?”

Five nodded.

“How did I die?”

Five's eyes widened. Then after a moment's silence, he said, “You always were the smartest. After me, of course.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

There was a long pause, as though Five was gathering the energy to speak. “On a mission, back in 2006—our timeline.”

What few pieces he hadn't connected were snapping into place in Number One's mind. “What changed this time around?”

“We're a divergent path,” said Five. “If your father had adopted different children. You were raised with us in this house, the first time around. He gave us numbers and called us heroes and sent us to fight battles until you were killed. But something changed after the six of us travelled back in time. We met your father in the past, and when we came back, our lives were gone. And you were all here in our place.”

The more One learned, the more he was starting to think the Umbrella Academy wasn't a divergent path so much as a first draft—one with so little worth salvaging that it had been torn up and rewritten from scratch. “But you said I was one of you. Why am I still here?”

“Probably because you were dead when we met our father,” said Five. “So he still adopted you, because he didn’t know any better. Except this time, you were Number One, not Number Six. And also a completely different person.”

A host of ambivalent and contradictory feelings was brewing inside him. So Ben wasn't him. Ben was just a boy with One's face, One's body, One's DNA. That boy had lived in the same house as him, with a life almost identical to his own aside from subtle distortions like the reflection in a cracked mirror. And yet somehow, instead of growing up to be One, he'd grown into the kind of person who could make people look at him the way their houseguests looked at One.

Into the kind of person who'd died.

“And you couldn't tell me because...”

“Your father gave us a choice,” said Five. “We could stay here as long as we didn't spill the beans and ruin morale. Otherwise, we could run far away, and he'd send you guys after us. The latter was tempting, not going to lie.” A dangerous smile appeared on his face. “Personally, I liked our chances against you. But it wasn't worth it. Not when we're all on the same side, when it comes down to it.”

“And the others disagreed with this plan?”

Five snorted. “Some of them can't compartmentalize. They just assume that the man responsible for ninety percent of their therapy bills is our enemy. And Allison wanted to take a third option.”

“The briefcase,” said One.

“A time machine. The only way we could make things back to normal.” Five gave a bitter laugh. “So much for that now. Guess this is the only normal we're left with.”

Tentatively, One asked, “Are we enemies?”

“Do you want us to be?”

One reflected. “No,” he said, after a few seconds. “I don't think so. So what does that make us instead?”

“Family,” said Five.

“I don't have a clue what that means anymore.”

Five seemed to mull it over before replying. “Imagine being chained to the dumbest people you've ever met. People you'd despise if you'd met them in the streets. People who do nothing but hold you back at every step. And still loving them, somehow.” He paused. “Wow. You know, I don't think I've ever said that out loud before.”

“So what,” said One, “are you offering to adopt me or something?” Sarcasm dripped into his voice. “Win me over with the power of love? Make me an honourary member of your B-team?”

“It wouldn't be the first time it happened,” said Five, with a smirk.

“You're forgetting something,” said One. “All of you are strangers to me. I wasn't there playing catch with you or whatever growing up. I don't have these memories that you do.”

Five looked thoughtful. “That's fair. I missed out on most of those years myself. Both the good and the bad.” He let out a long sigh. “Didn't stop me from trying to get my family back, though. Who knows, maybe it was less about them and more about me. But it's not too late, you know.”

“It's not about too late,” snapped One. “That would mean there was ever a time when it would have worked. You look at me and see someone I'm not. You all expect me to be a stand-in for a person I haven't met. Who you seem to think walks on fucking water or something. Well, it's not fair to me. None of this is. I'll never be that person. I'm never going to love any of you back.”

Five didn't betray any emotion. “Looks like we're at a stalemate, then. Well, how's this for a compromise? You don't hurt us and we don't hurt you. Neither of us tells your father we had this conversation.”

“I can live with that.”

A cocky grin spread across Five's face. “Good. My work is done.” He stood up. “Time to see if my siblings have murdered each other yet.”

“Wait!” called out One, before he could warp away. Five stopped, curious.

In spite of himself, One asked, “Were we close?”

His expression was far away. “We were. But that was forty-five years ago.” At One's shock, Five gave a mischievous wink. “That's a story for another day.”

Then Five disappeared into blue light, leaving One to think that for all that had just been cleared up, so much more had become murky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mild fighting/violence, non-fatal accidental drug overdoses, choking, discussion of suicidal ideation, whatever Leslie's gross retching power is. Let me know if I'm missing something.
> 
> The next chapter should be up in a few days when I get beta feedback.


	6. Vanya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** there's one paragraph referencing an eating disorder in this chapter. You can skip it if you jump from the paragraph ending with "It made things more agreeable for everyone." to the next paragraph beginning with "Or when Christopher" and not miss anything about the plot.

It was nine o’clock at night, and Number One was staring at the ceiling of his room. Today he’d completed his one hour of weight training and one hour of cardio and thirty minutes of martial arts drills. He’d practiced his tentacle dexterity exercises, although threading a needle or writing his name in sand was less fine motor control and more cajoling the _things_ from the other dimension into listening to him. He’d already subjected himself to his weekly physical and let Sir Reginald take X-rays of his abdomen.

There were no charity galas or photo shoots or press conferences today. No missions—there hadn't been a mission since the Umbrella Academy had arrived.

He was free. Absolutely nothing to do.

A pressure was building in his head, and it had no escape valve. Inside him was a hunger he didn’t know how to sate. His hands fidgeted at his side. Usually when he wasn’t busy, he could find ways to keep himself occupied, but sometimes it became hard to see the point of anything.

He dangled his feet off the side of his bed. Stood up. Maybe he should venture out. It might be a welcome distraction.

As if in a daze, he let his legs carry him through the house, up the stairs, until he found himself by the guestrooms on the third floor again. By now, everyone would have retired upstairs after dinner, maybe even started getting ready for bed. For once, instead of running away from his guests, he was running toward them. Facing what he'd least wanted to face.

Inside the first room, he heard a faint conversation. He could open the door. Join them. But instead he listened outside, pressing his nose against a window to a life that wasn't his.

Number One heard Luther finish saying, “—let Dad get away with this?”

“I said nothing about letting him get away with it,” said Five. “But we need to be smart about our reaction. Right now, we don’t have a whole lot of options.”

Allison spoke. “Diego says Herb could help us with—”

“Really. The Commission is going to help us.” The condescension was audible in Five's voice. “So they can make sure the Apocalypse happens again?”

“It's not how it was when you worked there,” said Luther. “Herb is our friend.”

“Being friendly doesn't make him on the right side,” said Five. “We know our father won’t end all life on Earth. Can we say the same for him?”

“Our father just erased our lives,” Allison said. “Their side sounds a lot better to me.”

One’s ears perked up. So he couldn't let his guard down around them yet. He tried to think what would happen, if the Sparrow Academy and the Umbrella Academy went to war. Of course he’d fight them, he told himself. There wouldn’t be a choice.

“I know that the old board of directors was...taken care of,” said Five. “But that doesn't mean we can trust the people who took their place. And even if we could, how would we get in touch with them?”

“So you won't try?” At the anger in Allison’s voice, One felt a strange relief. It meant things were reverting to the status quo.

“Any brilliant suggestions?” asked Five. “That briefcase was our only ticket out. It's not like we have their phone number.”

One heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door. “Does that mean she's gone forever?” asked Allison.

There was a long pause. Five’s tone was direct and matter-of-fact when he spoke again. “Probably,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“It’s not fair.” Allison’s voice shook. “None of this was her fault. She was just a kid. She deserved a chance to grow up.”

“Nothing about our lives is fair, Allison,” said Five. Then he added, “It's not that I don't care. You know that.”

“I know.”

“I spent forty-five years alone. You learn to adjust. There’s no choice.”

“Believe me,” said Allison bitterly, “I’ve already had to learn that the hard way.” She let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “So...what next?”

Five sighed. “Beats me. I didn't even know the answer to that before we got stuck here.”

“Me neither,” said Luther, as if it were an admission of guilt. “There’s no place for us here. Right now I don’t have a clue what to do with myself, and I’m guessing we’re all in the same boat.”

Five gave a sardonic laugh. “I guess we’ll just have to figure it out together.”

At the word _together_ , an instinctive shudder ran through One. He hurried off as though fleeing something contagious. Whatever was inside the room would sink its claws into him if he allowed himself to get too close.

He kept walking, further down the hall. In the second room, he heard soft vocalizations, someone's breath hitching. Whatever the sound was, he hoped it wasn't sobbing. That wouldn't do at all. He stood outside, wondering if he should listen. Then he took a step closer.

“I'm sorry,” said a broken voice on the other side of the door.

“Don't ever do that to yourself again, okay? Do you promise?” A long pause. “I said, do you promise?”

Number One heard an inaudible response.

“Don't give me that shit!” shouted Diego. “I'm going to punch your lights out again if you don't promise me right now.”

He heard what sounded like an assent, then a sniffle. “I know I need to be better,” said Klaus. “I didn't mean to...I shouldn't have kept him from...”

“It was never really about him,” Diego said. “Klaus, I was so happy you were trying to get sober. You were doing so well, man. Then I see you in Dallas for the first time in months and you're drunk off your ass again. How do you think that made me feel?”

“I made it three years.”

“Wow, three years?” Diego’s voice was brimming with pride. “That's amazing.”

“It's hard. It's just so hard.”

“Hey. You made it three years. You can make it another day.”

“I miss them both.”

“I know,” said Diego. “I know. Come here.”

One pulled away from the door as though he'd touched a hot stove. He couldn't imagine a world where he'd break down in front of another person like that. The very idea made him sick. And how could Diego reciprocate instead of looking away? It didn't make sense. It wasn't even part of One’s emotional vocabulary.

And as Number One kept walking, he thought of how good the Sparrow Academy was at looking away. You'd see something ever so slightly out of place, and you'd avert your eyes out of politeness, even if it began to fester and grow more askew. No displays of emotion; no explosions or tears or heartfelt confessions. Life ran like clockwork, any unpleasantness swept under the rug. It made things more agreeable for everyone.

Like when they'd been teenagers, and the snide comments had started in the press about Astrid's thighs, Astrid's hips. And Astrid, who'd always wanted to impress everyone, had started with the fad diets, the extra training and hours of cardio. One had found it funny at first, and when her thighs and hips shrank, reporters only asked fawning questions. _Number Two, you look great! What's your weight loss routine? How did you do it?_ And Astrid would give a secretive smile, while Carla rolled her eyes and Morrigan withdrew into herself and flew off alone once the interview was over. Then it occurred to One when Astrid started fainting during missions that something might be wrong, but all he could bring himself to say were empty pep talks about the importance of balanced meals for peak performance. None of them ever dared to pull back the veil and name what was happening, even as it became obvious she was getting sicker. Then one day, she’d disappeared for two months. No one had said a word when she’d returned, the roundness back in her cheeks despite the haunted look in her eyes. Now everything was back to normal—except for when it wasn't. But it was easy to overlook old habits resurfacing.

Or when Christopher would have a lapse in focus and let something ugly escape his mind. Early on, when his father had first constructed the new body for Seven because his consciousness couldn’t stay tethered to his old one, those lapses had been more frequent. Many times, the seven of them would be in a room together and receive a telepathic blast without warning. And One would be bowled over with the weight of Christopher’s despair, a sense of dissociation and loneliness and existential horror that One hadn’t known was possible. But then it would end as abruptly as it had begun. No one would ask what was wrong. Just a blip, nothing to see here, moving on. And if Christopher had wanted a different response, he certainly couldn't give signs otherwise.

In this household, you didn’t cry on someone’s shoulder. If masks slipped—haunted looks after training, or shudders at certain words, or jumps at sudden movements or loud noises—everyone pretended not to see. They were seven strangers who watched each other kill and bleed and scream and then acted like it had never happened.

Not that it mattered. If the others struggled without someone to catch them if they fell, that wasn’t One’s business. Number One was careful never to fall in the first place. He didn’t need a shoulder to cry on.

He was okay.

 _Was_ he okay?

The door to the third-floor bathroom opened. Vanya stopped with a jolt when she saw him, her gaze lingering on his face.

“Hey,” she said. She was wearing pyjamas, a neat little plastic travel kit with a mini toothbrush and toiletries in her hand.

Somehow, even after whatever witchcraft Allison had pulled, One always forgot about Vanya. She was so small and unassuming, overshadowed by the big personalities in her family. Dull brown eyes and a soft, inexpressive voice. The kind of person who'd disappear into any crowd, not of interest to anyone.

He grunted in acknowledgement, the bare minimum of courtesy.

Vanya hesitated, then asked, “Can I talk to you?”

One’s eye roll was spontaneous. When did they not want to talk to him about something?

“Let me guess, is it about your feewings?” he said.

Vanya frowned. “Was it Dad who taught you that?”

“Taught me what?”

“To bottle things up,” she said. “Because you're so afraid that if you share what you're feeling, no one will care anyway.”

He found himself getting flustered. “I'm Number One. Of course everyone cares what I have to say.”

“You know,” Vanya said, “Dad made me so scared of losing control that I spent most of my life taking a pill every time I felt anything. And when I stopped, it almost killed me.” A shadow crossed her face. “Almost killed everyone, actually.”

“And what does any of this have to do with me?”

“Maybe you're not as brave as you think you are. If there's one thing I've had to learn the hard way, it's that there's nothing braver than feeling.”

Thirty seconds in, and this conversation already made him want to puke. “Just because I'm not some wimp getting into hugfests like you doesn't make me afraid.”

She seemed to wilt, and at once he wanted to undo his words. He didn’t know why inflicting pain was his mother tongue, while showing kindness always felt like a foreign language. “Is Klaus okay?” he forced himself to ask.

“Klaus is about as okay as any of us.” She paused, chewed on her lip. “But we get through the day somehow.”

He shrugged. It seemed like as good a response as any.

“I spoke to Five.” She must have caught One's flicker of confusion, because then she added, “my Five. He told me about your chat.”

“So everything is out in the open now.” No games, no meanings behind meanings and looks that flew way above his head.

“Yep,” said Vanya. “I think it's time you and I talked.”

He stiffened, preparing himself for whatever sob story Vanya was about to burden him with.

“I want to tell you a story,” said Vanya, which already wasn’t a promising start. She paused, then took a deep breath as if to steel herself. “When I was younger...things were hard for me. Dad thought my powers were dangerous, so he brainwashed me into thinking I was the only ordinary one in my family. And it was so lonely. Always being on the outside looking in. Years of the same endless grey sky without a ray of sunlight anywhere. Even now, it's hard to talk about.”

“You could have fooled me,” said One under his breath. This was getting far too personal, and he wanted to bring it down to a level he understood.

Vanya gave him a look as though she saw right through him. But she continued.

“It's funny. You know something damaged you, but you don't _really_ know until you get a peek of your life without it. The person you might have been if you hadn't been broken.” Bitterness crept into her voice. “And you feel so robbed. Realizing the man who should have looked out for you cut you to pieces when you were too young to fight back. You could have been loved. You could have been someone who stood up for herself. It eats you alive with rage.”

The anger simmering off such a mild woman surprised him. But maybe she’d had a point about bravery. Number One had run into burning buildings and storms of bullets, and yet he couldn't imagine standing in front of a stranger and baring his soul like this. It would tear him apart. Whatever this was, it wasn't weakness.

“I was just drowning in so many feelings,” she continued. “But in my darkest moment, someone showed me compassion. My brother.” Her eyes grew soft and misty. “Gratitude doesn't even begin to cover what I feel for him. He ceased to exist for me. It was the kindest, bravest thing I've seen anyone do in my life.”

She touched his arm and looked him dead in the eye. “I think you know who that brother was.”

In his sea of disorientation, One clung to his flash of annoyance like a life preserver. At least the latter was familiar. “So this is about Ben? Why don't you guys ever shut up about him? You know that's not who I am.”

“No,” said Vanya, “this isn't about Ben. I wanted to talk to _you_. Number One or Ebony or whatever you prefer.”

“Just One.”

“Look, One, I don't know what your life is like in this house, or if you're happy. But I've spent most of my life asking myself who I'm supposed to be. And it's an awful feeling, not knowing the answer. So if you're ever feeling lost, you should know that I've met you before. And deep down inside of you is the potential to be the best person I've ever—are you okay?”

He closed his eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“That's not who I am,” said Number One, keeping his voice steady. “I'm not good at all.”

Vanya gave a self-deprecating smile. “Okay, if we got into all the bad things I've done in my life, we'd be here for a week. Believe it or not, I have some experience with feeling like a monster.”

As One gave the short, slender woman in front of him a once-over, he assumed she was trying to make him feel better. She looked like she didn't have it in her to say a mean word to anyone.

“Ben told me the world is full of shitty people doing shitty things,” Vanya continued, “and it’s okay if you were changed by it. You can be messed up and angry and flawed because of everything that happened to you. None of that makes you a bad person, or unworthy of love.”

“You’re seriously telling me _I_ said all that?” He couldn’t imagine his brain generating a single one of those thoughts. “Back when I was still a teenager?”

“Yes! Well, you weren’t a teenager—it’s complicated—but that’s another story. The point is, you don't have to be perfect. Ben wasn't either, and he still sacrificed himself for me.” She twirled a strand of her hair. “Anyway, I guess this is a long-winded way of saying that the person who showed me that love lives inside you. I sorta thought I owed it to his memory to tell you. If you ever have the kind of day I've had before, maybe it'll help.”

The inside of his throat felt tight. “It's too late for me.”

“It's never too late.”

He shook his head. “You'd need to go back thirty years and start from scratch to make me that man.”

“Trust me,” said Vanya, “if you'd told me last year that this would be me, you'd have blown my mind. But if you don’t like who you are right now, nothing’s stopping you from changing.”

Something deep within him recoiled at the subject. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like a diver trying to swim to the depths of the ocean, only the water turned colder the further he sank, the pressure more crushing. No matter how many times he tried to push onward, sooner or later he would reach his limit and have to resurface. There was always a block he couldn't get past.

“I don't want to change,” he said. “Maybe you should stop assuming things about me.”

“If you’re not ready, that's fine. But you’re not alone now. You have us—”

“No!” shouted One. “For the last time, I’ll never be your brother. I don't know you people, and I don't _want_ to know you.”

Her eyes turned white. At once, a faint ringing seemed to vibrate through his skull like an oscillating tuning fork. The sound built in volume until it gave One a headache. He felt a gust of wind in his face, his skin erupting in goosebumps. The floorboards creaked, and above his head, the light fixture rattled. In the center of it all, Vanya was bathed in an ethereal glow, her hair blowing in all directions. A lightbulb burst with a loud pop.

But then just as Number One had readied himself for battle, it stopped as quickly as it had begun.

“Okay,” said Vanya, in a flat voice. Her eyes were brown again, and full of resignation. “Fine. My brother's gone forever. I know that.”

He felt the sudden urge to justify himself. “Look, I'm not like you. I don't have it in me to be the kind of brother you're looking for. We weren't taught certain things. My family—if you can call them that...we aren't good at talking to each other the way you guys are.”

Vanya burst out laughing.

“What's so funny?” asked One, confused by the change in mood.

“Oh my God,” said Vanya, wiping tears from her eyes, “I can't breathe.” She was clutching her sides, gasping for air. “Sorry. You think we're good at _talking to each other_?”

Somewhere a joke was flying above his head. “Well, you're always giving corny speeches about family at the drop of a hat.”

“Oh,” said Vanya, with a twitch of her lips, “that's new. Like, within-the-past-week new. Believe me, communication wasn't always our thing.”

“What changed?”

“A few of us decided we were sick of being strangers. So we started making an effort to be there for each other. Sure, we were all such different people, but no one else in the world could understand our weird lives, you know? We figured we might as well try to be a real family.”

“You can't just wake up one day and decide that,” said One. He'd thought relationships were much like people—set in stone forever, exactly what they'd always been meant to be.

“You can,” said Vanya. “Someone just has to reach out first. I used to blame the others for freezing me out. But now I know it was a two-way street.” Then she yawned. “Anyway, it's getting late. I've talked your ear off already.”

Right before she turned around, she froze.

“You won't hug me, right?” asked Vanya.

She looked so sad that One almost gave in. But then he came up against the same icy barrier deep within himself, the same internal resistance.

“I can’t,” said One, lowering his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Okay,” said Vanya, her face falling. “I didn't think so.”

Then he was alone in the hall.

***

Number One decided he was ready to face the question at the center of everything, the one he kept gravitating toward but then darting away from as soon as he got close. Who was he, and who did he want to be? He turned it over in his mind, trying to examine it from every angle.

When he'd told Luther he was more than a role, it had seemed so obvious at the time. After all, he must have been more than his father's creature, if he did so much his father hated. But now he realized all his petty rebellions amounted to no more than a rat in a cage shifting the position of his food bowl. He wondered if he even knew the first thing about himself.

The media, his father, his teammates—all of them had foisted so many labels onto him throughout his life, and those labels occasionally chafed at him like clothes that didn't quite fit. But when he peeled them off, he found that the shell was all he’d ever been. Earlier he’d dreaded the truth he might face if he took a hard look in the mirror, but the last thing he'd expected to find was nothing at all. Just an empty pit, lonely and vacant and meaningless.

He didn't know where along the way he'd lost himself. All he knew was that in another life, if you'd cut open his core, you'd have found a beating heart inside, but in this one there was only sawdust.

What had Ben had that One lacked? For a long time, he deliberated, staring at the outline of the hole inside him to see if he could visualize the missing piece.

Then he made his decision.

Later, he stood outside another door. This time, he knocked on it.

“Come in,” said Guillaume.

Taking a deep breath, One put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.

Inside, Guillaume was sitting on his bed, knitting a powder-blue scarf. His room always reminded One of an old woman’s cottage tucked away in the forest. Lace doilies, wicker baskets, and scented candles on the desk and shelves; a floral patterned quilt over the bed; framed pictures of pastoral landscapes and sunflowers on the wall. As if someone had designed a room with as little in common with Guillaume's appearance as possible.

Guillaume's room was also the only one with no mirrors.

“Hey,” said One. When Guillaume stiffened, One felt his stomach sink.

“Uh, hi, Number One,” said Guillaume. He put down his knitting needles. “It's too late for training now, isn't it?”

“It's not that,” said One. “I was just looking through my room. Um, I found this.”

He felt his face heat up as he reached behind his back and pulled out the crocheted octopus.

“Mr. Leggsy!” shouted Guillaume, his voice bubbling with excitement. “You still have him?”

“Yeah,” said One. “He's...cute.”

“Oh,” said Guillaume. “Thank you. I didn't know you'd kept him.”

One repressed a smile. Seeing Guillaume light up at such a small gesture made him feel sort of...warm, but One didn't want to think about it too closely.

“Hey,” One managed, “uh...it's cool that you make these things.”

The obvious shock in Guillaume's eyes made him feel like this had been a dumb idea.

“That's not what you said when I gave it to you,” said Guillaume in a small voice. “You called it—”

One cringed. “I was thirteen at the time, okay? I was stupid.”

“Okay,” said Guillaume, fidgeting with the yarn in his lap. “About that. I didn't mean to upset you back then. I wouldn't have if I'd known you'd react that way. It's just—you know, I thought it might make you feel better.”

“Why would you need to do that?” asked One, offended.

“Well, back then, you didn't seem to like your power much,” said Guillaume. “So maybe it was silly, but I thought putting a happy face on it would make it less scary for you. I find it helps to focus on bright and cute things sometimes. They make the world feel a little less dark.”

And it was true that there had been a time, back when Guillaume had looked more like a boy than a monster, when One would feel sick at the revulsion in the other children's eyes whenever he'd pull up his shirt and open the portal underneath. Young Five must have sensed something, because one time after a training session, he'd lifted his own uniform cardigan and shown One the grey lumps on his heart and kidneys and stomach. “You're just like me,” he'd said. But then the missions had started, and One had fallen into the leader role. He'd learned to embrace his power instead of fearing it, while Guillaume had only become more of an abomination. Number One had felt less and less like Guillaume with every passing day.

A sudden defensiveness flared up inside him, but just as One was about to call that ridiculous, he stopped. “It did make me feel better. Deep down.”

“Oh,” said Guillaume. “That's good to know.”

This conversation felt like insects crawling under his skin. He wanted to push Guillaume away, to run out the door. Every fibre of him cried out against breaking through this wall, screaming, _stay away, don't get close_.

But he forced himself to stay. Maybe it was time he did something brave.

“Someday you should show me how to make stuff like this,” said One, wincing internally as he said it.

“Really?” asked Guillaume, and the scepticism in his voice was painful to hear.

“No, I mean it!” he insisted. “I don't know the first thing about sewing or crafts. I'm useless at it. It's just...” His mouth turned dry as he tried to find the words. “We live together, right? And there are so few people like us in the world. Maybe we should...” It felt so silly to say out loud, but he pressed onward. “Maybe we could try finding out more about each other. You know, when we're not fighting crime.” He felt a sudden shyness, and he lowered his eyes. “I mean...if that interests you, of course.”

“That would interest me,” said Guillaume. “Thank you, Number One.”

At once, the name felt wrong, like a dissonant chord. It evoked memories of missions, commands, boxes you couldn't escape. “You don't have to call me that if you don't want to, Guillaume. Not anymore.”

“Okay,” said Guillaume. “Should we go back to Ebony?”

He winced. “God, no. Let's never bring that up again.” He chewed on his lip. “Guess it's back to baby name books for me. Never thought I'd need to think about this again at twenty-nine years old.”

“I can help if you want,” said Guillaume, sounding excited. “I love naming things. We could make a list.” Guillaume was bouncing as he ran to his desk, grabbing a stationery pad with kittens on the cover and a purple pen. “Or we could just use a nickname. What about Eb? Or Bobo?” He paused, waiting for a reaction. “No?”

One repressed a sigh. He stood in silence for a bit, lost in thought.

“There's always Ben,” he said, to his own surprise.

“Ben,” said Guillaume. “I guess we can try that. All right, Ben.”

It didn't feel quite right, but it didn't feel _wrong_ either.

“If that doesn't work, we can think of something else,” said One, with a sense of resignation, as though he was finally surrendering to the current of a river he'd tried to swim upstream. “But it's good enough for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Thank you for reading this all the way to the end. Also thank you to anyone who left kudos or commented. <3


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